


Petunia's Letter

by mzzbee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cheating, F/M, Magic, Original Character Death(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-09 20:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11676102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mzzbee/pseuds/mzzbee
Summary: After the Weasleys blow up the Dursleys' fireplace and pick up Harry for the Quidditch Cup, Petunia Dursley receives an unexpected letter.Begins during the opening chapters of the Goblet of Fire.





	1. Petunia's Letter

The letter was not in the post box but in the front basket of Petunia’s bicycle, and instead of a stamp the envelope bore a splot of owl poo. Petunia’s knees went weak with shock. For one horrifying second she thought they were about to have a repeat performance of the influx of thousands of letters delivered by hundreds of owls that had preceded Harry’s start at Hogwarts, but as soon as she snatched up the offending missive and read the name on the envelope, she realised this was a completely different sort of calamity. With a panicky glance along the street to ensure no one could see she stuffed the letter deep into the pocket of her cardigan before retrieving the morning paper from the post box.

A little to her surprise, Dudley had come downstairs without being told twice and now sat at the breakfast table with Vernon, despondently eyeing his orange and single slice of toast. Vernon had already eaten his one sole egg but his celery sat untouched. Petunia sniffed and handed him the Guardian, which he read every morning (taking no more than ten minutes to do so – Petunia suspected he didn’t really understand what he read, certainly he retained none of it) because that was what People Like Him did in the mornings.

“Can I have some chocolate pudding, mum?” Dudley asked plaintively.

“No, Dudders,” Petunia said, stabbed by fresh guilt. How could she have let things slide to the point where her poor adolescent son had to be put on a diet? He shouldn’t have had to worry about weight issues for years yet… not until he reached Vernon’s age, anyway, and Vernon really should know better by now. But if it was her fault, Petunia thought, she would jolly well fix her own errors, even if it meant cooking less. “That chocolate pudding in the fridge is for Sunday dessert. Eat your breakfast now, the bus to your running camp is leaving in an hour.”

Behind his paper, Vernon snorted disdainfully. Petunia gave the headlines a sharp look but Vernon said nothing more. His dismissive remarks and counter-productive attitude certainly weren’t making it easy for Petunia to overhaul Duddy-wuddy’s life.

“I’m still going to camp?” Dudley gasped, eyes wide as his plate.

“Of course you’re going!” Petunia stared at him. “Whyever not?”

“But mum! My tongue!”

“There’s nothing wrong with your tongue.”

“It was five feet long yesterday!”

“And now it’s fine, and you’re going.” Petunia rolled her eyes. “Besides, what would we tell the camp counsellors? Dudley can’t come to the camp as he had his tongue engorged to the length of five feet and feels delicate?”

“Petunia!” Vernon snapped his paper aside with a sharp rustle. “I’ll have none of that in this house!”

Petunia sniffed. Sometimes Vernon was simply unreasonable in not allowing magic to even be alluded to in the household. While Petunia fully supported the underlying principle, it did make conversations difficult at times. She put the dishes in the washer and wondered how she could have spoken in a more acceptable way. By the time she started taking the laundry out of the machine, Dudley had finished his toast and orange.

“Well done, Duddy dear,” Petunia said and smiled at her son. He tried, he really did. He was not to blame for having the parents that he did. Anyway, the nurse had grossly exaggerated the problem—Dudley was big-boned for his age. Surely the diet would have done the trick by Christmas. “I’ve packed your bags, they’re on the sofa. Be sure to wear the new trainers we bought yesterday. Daddy will drive you to Victoria Station.”

“But mum…”

Vernon put down his paper and drew a long breath. An icy certainty settled on Petunia: Vernon would say Come now, Petunia, he can run just as well in Little Whinging! What do you say we let him stay home? and Dudley would say I’m not feeling well, I want to stay with you! and Vernon would say We can’t send him to camp when he’s sick, and that would be that and Dudley would miss the exercise he desperately needed.

“I think I heard yesterday that the Perkins’ youngest son, Homer, is going to the same camp,” Petunia said brightly, intercepting the incoming exchange. The Perkins family owned the large house at the top of Privet Drive, the one that Vernon always said he would buy when Grunnings finally recognised his value and promoted him to Head of Bit Production. Petunia knew that Vernon had long tried to foster some sort of friendship between Dudley and Homer, who were of an age, thus far with scant results.

Her news had exactly the anticipated effect. Vernon’s objections melted away into an enthusiastic pep talk about the wonders of running camp and the benefits of exercise, and in ten minutes the male folk were out of the house and in the car, bound for Victoria Station.

Petunia stood at the living-room window and watched them go, and felt her muscles relax as the dark grey Volvo turned the corner past the Perkins’ house onto Magnolia Street. Having Dudley, and Harry of course, off at school most of the year was a blessed relief. Much as she loved Dudley, he did tend to disrupt the tidiness of the household, and Harry was constantly pestering his cousin, not to mention wearing her nerves raw just waiting for the next outburst of uncontrollable magic. Towards the end of the summer holidays she always found herself tensing into a ball of anxiety.

But now, two weeks of summer relaxation were ahead of her. True, she still had Vernon around the house, but alone he was easier to manage, and besides, he left for work every morning and never returned earlier than seven. Now she would be free to give the house a proper clean, take down the early-summer curtains and hang up the late-summer ones, perhaps thoroughly empty the kitchen cabinets and give them a good wash. She reached into her pocket for her daily planner, but her fingers met the heavy, rough paper of the letter instead.

Trembling, she withdrew it. The owl poo had rubbed off inside her pocket. Oh well, the cardigan needed a wash anyway, she thought absently and sank onto the sofa, staring at the handwriting on the envelope. It was addressed to Petunia Ev Dursley, with the "Ev" crossed out, which made her smile a little through the hammering of her heartbeat.

 _Dear Petunia_ , the letter began.

_I hope your son is well now._

_For my part, I'm very, very sorry for the behaviour of my own sons. Fred and George had no right to abuse your hospitality in that dreadful manner, and I and Molly offer our most heartfelt apologies. So do the boys; they have been appropriately punished. Please tell Dudley so. I hope you weren't very frightened_ _when (_ several phrases had been written and subsequently crossed out)  _it happened, although I expect you were, as would any parent be._

 _On a related note,_ _I was very pleased to see you looking so well_ (some more awkward starts and crossings-out; Petunia smiled crookedly)  _. Fourteen years it's been, or is it fifteen? And you haven't changed at all! Amazing! I had hoped to come to know your husband better and to have a much longer chat with you, but under the circumstances I thought it would be prudent to just leave as quickly as I could. Don't take this as a sign that I ran away from you! Quite the contrary! I know you've stayed away from the wizarding world, but could you make an exception for me and meet me for a meal? I have frequently wondered if your life has turned out as well as mine has and would dearly love to catch up._

 _You can reply to me with_ (here the word Muggle had been crossed out)  _box mail using the following postal address: Leaky Cauldron, 54 Charing Cross Road, London WC2H 0BB._

Yours,

Arthur

 

Petunia hardly knew whether to laugh or weep. Dear Arthur. It had been eighteen years, not fifteen, and he was plainly lying about the state of her face and figure, bless him. And damn him. She had only just managed to hold herself together on seeing him again, largely because the prank played by his sons had distracted her; in fact, put like that, it had actually been a lucky accident. She had summoned all her strength just to survive that one meeting, telling herself it need never happen again.

But now she would have this letter hanging over her head. Her holiday would be ruined with wondering if she should reply, how she should reply, even how she should react. She had forgiven him years ago, but apparently her head had failed to completely subdue her heart, judging by the stab of anger she felt.

In 1975 Petunia had been 19 years old, and welcoming Lily home from school for the holidays was, as ever, a battle between being glad to have Lily home and resenting her sister for enchanting their parents with her magic. She had brought James for a visit that year, too, for the very first time, much to the delight of their mother and father who had fawned over the pair of them in a quite silly way. And then two days later, Lily and James had introduced them to the cutest young wizard ever, who dreamed of teaching Muggle Studies at Hogwarts and who enthusiastically examined every electrical outlet and marvelled at the Evans’ new colour television and oven. Arthur Weasley had interviewed them all for a project to study the impact of electricity on family life, and it had been nice to talk to someone who actually seemed to be interested in Petunia’s own life, even if Arthur himself was quite strange. That was why Petunia had not minded at all when her parents had invited him for a longer stay as a lodger so he could write his paper in authentic Muggle surroundings.

Her whole body beating time to her heart Petunia sprang up from the sofa and headed into the kitchen. It was completely unfair of Arthur to do this to her. She took up a rag and scrubbed at a stubborn spot on the countertop so vigorously that her carefully arranged hair bounced up and down as if on springs.

Arthur would have to be told that this was just not acceptable. He could not waltz back into her life like this, upset her routines and derail her perfectly ordinary, perfectly acceptable family. She would not have it.

She would write to him and tell him… tell him to stay away from her. Yes. She put away the rag and found a pen and a notepad, and sat down at the kitchen table to compose her letter.

Dear Arthur, she started, stared at the words for a few seconds and tore off the paper. She wrote Arthur Weasley, then tore that off, too. None of the greetings she went through in her head seemed to set quite the right tone.

Maybe she should say it to his face. Yes, telling him to keep away would have more impact in person in any case. She would do exactly that.

The brief note of acceptance was much easier to write, too.

 

Petunia drew the huge scarf around her head and face in spite of the early August heat. Charing Cross Road was a jostling, bustling hubbub of chattering tourists with heavy bags, and Petunia had the hateful feeling she stood out like a sore thumb. She could not stop glancing around, trying to catch disapproving looks.

Vernon had whined and roared when she had announced her intention to spend a weekend in London, but had mellowed when she told him she would leave him ready meals in the fridge and pointed out that he could now invite over some friends and make a lads’ night of it. Petunia knew full well that these lads’ nights usually ended with, or perhaps consisted entirely of, Vernon sitting in front of the telly alone in his underwear with endless bottles of beer until he passed out, but he seemed content with them.

Here was number 54, changed far less than she had in the twenty years since her last visit. Petunia glanced around fearfully, then dashed to the worn wooden door, yanked hard on the brass doorknob and slipped inside, fairly certain that no one in the real world had seen her, let alone recognised her.

The front hall was small and rather dingy, like the lobby of a small, very shabby hotel, and Petunia had not remembered it being so ordinary. A strange nostalgia washed through her. She had not been here since Lily’s third school year, and had definitely not expected to be here ever again.

“Mrs Dursley?” A young woman in a dowdy print dress at odds with her spiky black hair appeared behind the aged oak veneer counter.

“Yes?”

“Mr Weasley’s waiting for you in the Brown Room. Please follow me.”

“Oh. Uh, very well then,” Petunia floundered, fiddling with her handbag.

The young lady rounded the end of the desk and led her up a narrow flight of stairs that ended in a very large, quite grand hallway that could not possibly have been contained in the outer dimensions of 54 Charing Cross Road. Halfway down the girl stopped, pointed at a door and curtsied herself away.

Petunia unwrapped the scarf from her head, briefly fumbled with her hair and straightened her blue flowery summer dress. Her heart raced. This was really it. She took a deep breath and steeled herself. Arthur, she would say. It was all a long time ago, and I forgive you, but the past is past and we must go on with our separate lives. A few more deep breaths, and she was ready to knock on the door.

Her knuckles were still touching the wood when Arthur flung open the door, as if he had been waiting just on the other side.

“Petunia!” he exclaimed, his face lit up in a smile. Petunia’s knees went weak and she swallowed a gasp.

One night in Cokeworth, when her parents had gone to the cinema, the young people had all had a bit too much wine, even Lily and James, who had not been supposed to have any but somehow had managed to snag a bottle for themselves. The two had lost their way upstairs amidst much giggling, and Petunia and Arthur had sat all night talking at the kitchen table. Petunia had talked about how much of an outsider she felt in her own family. Arthur had talked about how after years of marriage he and his wife were coming to the conclusion that perhaps they were not meant for each other after all, and how Molly had taken their two sons and moved back to her parents’ house six months ago. He missed them all desperately, especially the boys, and Petunia listened to his stories about them and took his hand to comfort him. As the sun rose, she finally plucked up her courage and kissed him.

And he had kissed her back, his warm mouth tasting of wine and delight.

She landed back in the present day with a painful shock when Arthur took a step back from the door and made a grand inviting gesture. “Come in!”

She did so, trembling slightly and forgetting to really return his smile.

The Brown Room was, as per its name, brown; a brown wooden dinner table, brown-upholstered dining chairs, carpets in various shades of brown, wallpapered in beige flowers on a background of, yes, brown, and a humongous, overstuffed brown leather settee in one corner with brown cushions to soften it. A meal for two was set on the table—thankfully the food was not brown.

“I thought we should meet in a place where we can talk,” Arthur said happily. “The pub downstairs is always noisy, so I borrowed this. It’s a ministry room, really, but no one was using it…” He looked around and hesitated. “I suppose it could be cozier.”

“It’s quite lovely.” Still shaken, Petunia smiled at his contagious enthusiasm, completely forgetting that she had intended to remain stern.

“You’re lovely,” Arthur countered, then cleared his throat. “Ahem. I ordered us lunch, if you’d like some…?”

She knew she should just say what she had come to say, not eat his food and let him read too much into her agreeing to meet him. She really should speak up, right now.

But then she somehow found herself smiling and sitting down to a plate of chicken, potatoes and mushy peas, facing Arthur who examined his portion critically, giving her time to examine him in turn. He had aged, of course, as much as she had. His hair was slightly less red, the corners of his eyes sported a few more line, but he was still that heartbreakingly adorable wizard whose eager blue eyes had captivated her, once upon a time. He wore robes, actual robes, which she had never seen him in before—staying with Muggles he had naturally dressed as one, and for his visit to Privet Drive he had likewise worn more or less ordinary trousers and a pullover. The robes might have looked absurd, had he not worn them with the unconscious flair of everyday use.

“Has Harry written to you at all this week, since the World Cup?” he asked, and started to cut into the chicken breast.

“Harry? Write to me? Hardly,” Petunia sniffed. “Why?” She took a bite of chicken, which was acceptable if not exceptional. A little more basil might have done the trick, or perhaps garlic.

“Oh.” Arthur paused, then rallied. “Well, there was rather a dreadful mess at the Cup, lots of people were hurt… I can’t really talk about it—much, but Harry’s fine, we’re all fine. I didn’t want you to worry, in case you heard rumours.”

“Thank you, Arthur. It’s very thoughtful of you.” She debated with herself over whether to ask more questions, but since it had turned out all right, what would be the point?

“How is Dudley? Pet…-unia, I really must apologise again for Fred and George. I’d love to be able to say they’ve never done this sort of thing before, but that wouldn’t be true. They’re a hazard wherever they go. It was nothing personal.”

“Apology accepted. Dudley’s fine now, he’s off at a running camp we’ve heard many good things about. He’ll be back in two weeks, just in time for school.”

Arthur gave her a puzzled look. “What’s a running camp? Do you mean he’ll have to chase after it, or…”

“It’s for exercise,” Petunia explained and tried very hard not to laugh. She described the point of the camp to Arthur, who listened with achingly familiar attentiveness and asked pertinent questions about this Muggle peculiarity.

“Was Harry supposed to go, too?” he finally asked, contrite. “I hope we didn’t ruin your plans with the Quidditch Cup.”

“No, no, Harry doesn’t need any more exercise, he’s so restless and always moving around. And he never eats enough.”

“Really? With you cooking for him, he doesn’t eat?” Arthur’s brows rose. “That’s strange, he shovels away huge portions at the Burrow.”

“I expect he finds the company more palatable.” Petunia was ashamed at the bitterness in her voice. She really should not let it get to her like this, the way Harry disdained his own relatives because they were not magical, but it was always galling. Of course he would prefer the Weasleys—as far as Harry was concerned, as a family of magic users they were evidently vastly superior to the down-to-earth Dursleys.

Arthur forked up a potato and chewed in silence for a while, clearly having some sort of internal debate. When he spoke, his tone was careful. “I’ve gathered from Harry that you two don’t get along too well.”

“That’s putting it very mildly,” Petunia sniffed. “He’s always been fractious and disrespectful. He’s got nothing of Lily in him, he’s the spitting image of that arrogant, thoughtless bully James, and I’m so tired of having him in the house.”

“Oh, James wasn’t that bad,” Arthur said. “Especially once he grew up.”

“He got my sister killed,” Petunia said, the grief and anger of fourteen years desperately wanting to bubble up to the surface where she had never, ever let it rise. “Don’t even try to defend him!”

“I, uh, well…” Arthur looked taken aback. “I can see how you might think that, but…”

“Can we not talk about this?” Petunia asked, fighting to contain the sudden rush of emotion by shoving a forkful of peas and chicken into her mouth. When she had last seen Arthur, everything had still been in the future. She had had Lily, and Lily had had James… her heart ached. She should have been relieved to have someone to talk about it all with, after so many years, but if she started now, she might never stop crying. She looked out the window to distract herself with a view of the rooftops and chimneys of Diagon Alley, eclectic and careworn in the sunlight.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur toyed with his fork, and Petunia was once again transported to the past by the way he twirled it over his middle finger and back again. One would think they had known each other for years, judging by how familiar everything about him was to her. “But I want you to know that I think you did a very good thing, taking in Harry. You saved him from being brought up in some dreary orphanage.”

“I wasn’t given any choice,” Petunia said, very quietly as if not really confessing that she would have liked to have had some.

“You had a choice every day of your life.” Arthur put his hand over hers, and every nerve ending in it seemed to simultaneously explode. She managed not to gasp but he sensed her sudden stillness and quickly withdrew, leaving behind a howling emptiness.

“So, uh, Arthur,” she stammered, casting about for a different topic and finding one by association. “I’m glad you and Molly really did patch things up. And you had more children, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied after a small pause, perhaps to gauge whether she was being sarcastic. “Five more, in fact.”

“Five more?” Petunia gaped. “You mean… seven in all?”

“Well, Molly wanted a girl.” He sounded awkward.

“And so you kept at it, until you got one? Even though she was the seventh?” Petunia shook her head. “Honestly, Arthur Weasley, what were you thinking?”

“That I’d then have seven children?” he countered mildly, with a small smile. “You know, I did think Harry might have mentioned us to you… told you about our family, how we are…”

“I hadn’t any idea before that letter arrived.” Petunia had finished her chicken and set her utensils tidily on the plate. She patted at the corners of her mouth with the napkin. “It came as something of a surprise.”

Surprise, indeed. She had almost fainted on reading Molly’s signature when Vernon shoved the thing at her, and then, hoping against hope that there were two Molly Weasleys among the witches of the world, had to sit down really quite urgently on finding the words my husband, Arthur in the middle of it. When she had understood that he would actually be in her very home the following day she had gone into an utter frenzy of cleaning, and had prepared an especially nice dinner of roast beef and creamy mashed potatoes on the off-chance that something happened and they would stay to eat. That last half an hour of waiting had been the longest thirty minutes in her entire life.

“Anyway, I’m very happy that you’re happy.” She smiled at him, and it was hardly even forced.

“And you?” Arthur asked. “Happily married to—oh dear, was it Vernon? I’m so bad with names…”

“Vernon, yes.” She hid a grimace in her glass.

“Well?” he prompted when she said nothing more.

“Good enough.”

Arthur produced a dessert from a chilled bowl on the sideboard, and they went on to talk about their children and then the rest of their lives. Petunia was saddened to hear that Arthur had indeed given up on his dream job as a Muggle Studies teacher, as he had predicted he might need to, but he assured her that he actually liked his current post very well.

“Did you ever try to soften up Dumbledore again?” Arthur asked curiously. “Like I told you to, after that first letter he sent?”

Petunia vented a humourless grunt. “No. It wouldn’t have done any good.”

“And you met Vernon.”

“And I met Vernon.” She waved a vanilla-puddinged spoon dismissively. “Dumbledore already said I had no gift, so it would have been no use anyway.”

“Well, like I said back then, there’s usually more than one witch or wizard even in a Muggleborn family,” Arthur said. “You could still ask to be tested. It’s still not too late.”

“I don’t want to be tested!” Petunia said sharply. She pushed her chair back and fled to the window, staring unseeing at Diagon Alley beyond. She could not take another failure. Her whole life was a serial drama of not being good enough. She had no reason to go looking for more disappointments and humiliation.

“All right,” Arthur said soothingly. He got up and followed her to the window. “I only thought, now that Harry’s at school, too, and—never mind, forget I said anything,” he backpedalled when she glared at him.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” Petunia deflated. “I know you mean well.”

“I just want you to be happy, Pet. …unia. Sorry.” Arthur looked down at his hands, then at the view, and stayed silent for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “I… I need to say something. I want to apologise. Not just for Fred and George, as much as they need it, and not just for wrecking your beautiful living-room which was entirely my fault—I just never thought that one would brick up a fireplace! An electric fire, now there’s a thing, never heard of those. I’ve got to think of someplace where I can have a proper look…”

“Arthur, you’re babbling.” His hand was so close to hers on the windowsill that she could feel its warmth, and she could smell the scent of him, a mixture of incense, mechanical grease and candlewax. She breathed in deep; every single hair on her heating body stood on end.

“I am, yes. Sorry.”

He paused to collect his thoughts, and as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other his robes brushed against Petunia’s bare leg. She was afraid to look at him, because surely he had to sense sudden the delicious frisson that ran through her.

“I… I just wanted to tell you that I know I treated you dreadfully. I should have…” He turned towards her, and his other hand met her fingers on the worn stone of the windowsill and made of the two of them a circle of warm safety in the sunshine. He swallowed. So did Petunia, through a dry throat.

“You should have what?” Her voice was hardly a whisper. His fingers curled around hers with hesitant gentleness. She had forgotten how it felt to be safe, to be seen and wanted as she really was. She lifted her chin to see his face, so close to hers, looking back so tenderly that her whole body seemed to burst into flames. She drew a long breath, and then she stepped forward into his arms and pressed her mouth on his. Some fleeting nervousness knocked at the edges of her consciousness but it disappeared as Arthur’s arms wrapped around her and he kissed her back, warm and caring.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered. “More than you can guess.”

“Me too,” she murmured.

He hugged her to his chest and Petunia melted against him, his robes soft and warm against her cheek. She held him tight, revelling in the feel of his solid body.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven for ruining your living-room?” he asked at long last.

She laughed, a happier sound than she had heard herself make in years, and drew back to look at him. She felt thoroughly delighted and relaxed, for the first time in eighteen years. Were her eyes as alight with it as his? He smiled, too, albeit with the question still in his eyes.

“You didn’t ruin it. We had the cleaners in, and then I tidied up after.” In truth, the condition of the room had hardly registered on her emotional gauge at the time.

“And am I at least halfway forgiven for…” his eyes flicked away for a split second as he hesitated, abashed—“…for my behaviour, back then?”

“Arthur Weasley,” she said and waited until he was really looking at her. She held his eyes steadily. “I forgave you fourteen years ago, when Dudley was born and I finally understood.”

“Really? Well, but… it’s not just that, I shouldn’t ha—”

“No.” Petunia cut him off. “Don’t say you should have chosen differently. Because then I wouldn’t have Dudley, and you wouldn’t have your children.”

Arthur took her hand and contemplated it. Then he kissed her knuckles.

“I’m not entirely sure I deserve that forgiveness,” he said sadly. “Or rather, you deserved better of me.”

“Regardless.” With aching regret she stepped back, unwinding her arms from his waist. “You couldn’t leave your children, just like I’d never leave mine.”

Arthur looked like he was about to say something, but then he just sighed. Petunia contemplated his tall, lanky frame, thickened now slightly towards middle-age, and thought about how she could get used to looking at him quite a lot more.

“I’m sorry I…” she began just as he finally said: “I really didn’t intend…” They both broke off and looked at each other, mouths twisting in mirroring smiles. He gestured for her to speak first.

“I shouldn’t have done… that, just now,” she said and fidgeted. “I… I can’t really say I’m sorry, because I’m not, but…” She ran out of words, blushing.

Arthur cleared his throat. “I know exactly what you mean.” His voice was rueful. “I know it looks like I planned this, meeting you alone and all, but I really just wanted to talk. And, er…” He chuckled. “Well, I did have a secret agenda, though it wasn’t this.”

“Secret agenda? You?” How easy it was to smile here, with him.

“Not very secret. You see, at the Quidditch World Cup, everybody noticed that the Ministry’s supply of Muggle clothes is dreadful. Even I know that only Muggle women wear dresses and that you can’t wear a tie with nothing but a pullover, but some of the lads just have no idea. So I talked Barty into giving me a bit of a budget for a new supply of clothes for the whole Department. You see, I figured, since I’d be meeting you, and you know everything there is to know about how to dress like a Muggle…” He smiled at her, hesitantly.

Was he joking? He did seem to be quite serious. Laughter bubbled up inside her. “You want me to take you shopping?” she giggled.

“That’s the general idea.”

She laughed harder. Such an absurd notion, and so very like Arthur. “All right,” she chortled. “Of course, if you want.”

“It’s not that funny,” Arthur mock-grumbled but could not help chuckling. “You’d agree if you’d seen what they were all wearing. That was funny. All the Muggleborns were having laughing fits.”

“I can imagine.”

“No, you really can’t. It was dreadful.”

“So, how much is your budget? And how much do you have to buy?” Her brain automatically began to work out whether she should take him to Regent Street or King’s Road, or if it would have to be Oxford Street or even, heaven forbid, some shopping centre outside London proper.

“I… don’t know. I just don’t understand Muggle money.” Arthur grimaced. “I counted it but I—oops!” He was interrupted by a tingling ring coming from somewhere upon his person. Eventually he withdrew a little round watch from his sleeve and pressed a button on its side. The lid flipped open and the object said, quite clearly: “Time to go home.”

“Is it that late?” he muttered. “I have to go. When do you think you could take me to the Muggle shops?”

“I’m staying in London until Monday,” she said, picking up her purse and scarf.

“Are you?” Arthur’s expression brightened considerably. “Then we can go shopping tomorrow! Lovely. I’ll pick you up at ten. Where are you staying?”

She gave him the name and address of her hotel, which was quite a nice one near Marble Arch, and he wrote it down with a quill on a thick piece of paper that, she realised, was actually parchment. Then he escorted her back into the Leaky Cauldron’s lobby. Petunia glanced around it, wondering whether she would ever come back here, and reckoned that the building was probably best re-relegated into the “never again” category.

They took longer than strictly necessary to say their goodbyes, neither really wanting to go; yet go they both must, Petunia out into the real world of Charing Cross Road, Arthur by some magical means that Petunia could only guess at back to the witch who was his wife. Petunia took advantage of the nice evening to walk all the way back to her hotel, and found herself practically skipping on clouds all the way. Her entire body felt alive, and a weight she had not known she carried seemed lifted from her shoulders. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur beat her pulse and her mouth tucked itself into a smile. The afternoon sun was shining, there were ample shopping opportunities for herself as well as for tomorrow’s excursion with Arthur, and soon she could have a nice dinner at the restaurant she had spotted that morning. She would enjoy to the full her sudden holiday from a life where Vernon sometimes took her entirely for granted and sometimes watched her for any signs of abnormality; where Dudley, bless him, seemed to go out of his way these days to vex her; and where Harry constantly reminded her of Lily’s fate by his presence and, ever since his Hogwarts letter, had treated her with scorn and contempt.

It was Vernon who had first pointed out to her that, after Harry’s eleventh birthday, the boy did not seem to care very much what happened at home. Harry had always had a habit of thinking he was so special, but that was nothing compared to how he began to ignore them all after receiving his letter and meeting that horrible Hagrid. He had not stopped obeying direct orders, not exactly; he simply did his chores and did not let any of it touch him, as though so preoccupied with magical thoughts that everyday life could now be taken care of by those who could not do anything more.

Petunia sniffed and her good mood slowly began to evaporate. Damn the boy, did he have to intrude on her happiness, too? Anyway, he had no business looking down on her. So he was a wizard, so what? Magic did not make anyone better, did it? Yes, it had made Lily special in the eyes of their parents, and everyone else… but did it make her better? No!

But what if… There’s usually more than one witch or wizard even in a Muggleborn family, Arthur had said. What if she, Petunia, actually was one? That would show them. For a few minutes she amused herself by imagining how she would announce to Harry that the time for his condescension was past, and pictured the astonished look on his face… and then she pictured Vernon finding out, so vividly that she flinched.

Anyway, that was all beside the point, she told herself sternly. She had no intention of getting tested, absolutely none, because it was useless. So there. Arthur could just talk until he was blue in the face, this was her final decision.

 

… or not. She had a restless night of heated discussions with herself and with an imaginary Arthur about testing her magical ability. From those she strayed into heated dreams about where such discussions with Arthur might lead, and they did not stop at kissing. On waking, Petunia was profoundly grateful for the hotel’s quite nice breakfast of eggs, bacon, beans, toast and jam, spiced with the luxury of not having to lift a finger to prepare it, even if she would have done a better job with the eggs and even the toast herself. By the time she was halfway through her third cup of tea she felt more like herself and ready to face Arthur again. With forty-five minutes still to spare, though, she lingered over her cuppa, and, what with last night’s dreams, found herself thinking about that summer eighteen years ago once again.

After that first kiss in the kitchen had come many more in secluded spots and out-of-the-way moments. They had spent most of their time together, taking long walks and talking. Petunia’s parents may have noticed something but did not object—Petunia was of age, and although Arthur was clearly somewhat older it was not by much. Of course they had no idea that he had a family. Petunia felt a bit guilty about that at times, but it was Arthur’s choice and, after all, he had said his marriage had already ended. She had talked to Lily, of course, like they had talked about everything, like Lily had talked to her about James… endlessly.

Then one day, her father gone to work and her mother gone to the hairdresser (a concept that had fascinated Arthur no end), and Lily had decided to take James “sightseeing” to a nearby circle of standing stones which was apparently some sort of magical monument. Petunia had had her suspicions about how much sightseeing would happen, but had said nothing out loud; the girls had just grinned at each other conspiratorially as the younger couple set off towards the bus stop. Arthur was actually working on his paper, and Petunia hesitated to interrupt him, so she took out the old typewriter that her dreadful great-aunt Elizabeth had given her to practice on. It had belonged to Petunia’s uncle, and she hoped to become fluent enough to be able to find work as a typist in London.

But then the crackling rattle of the keys had attracted Arthur (which she had not at all intended, she told herself and him), and he had sat on the flower-patterned sofa watching her type endless rows of asdfjkl. Then he had wanted to know how the typewriter worked, and Petunia had shifted over so he could sit by her to peer inside and press the keys himself.

“Fascinating,” he had said, shaking his head and smiling with delight. “And can you write as fast on this as with quill and ink?”

“Faster than pen and paper, at least. Well, I can’t, yet,” she had said, “but I’ve seen people type a full page in just one minute.”

“Surely the keys don’t even move that fast,” Arthur objected.

“They do, I’ll show you. I can’t write words so fast, but I can manage gibberish. Look.” And she had proceeded to type random letters at great speed, trying to imitate a man she had seen at a post office taking down a telegraph. Then Arthur’s leg brushed against hers and the keys became stuck in a pile of textured iron hammers. She stopped and began to gently pull the mess apart to let the hammers fall back into their place, when she felt Arthur’s hand on her back. Petunia still shivered to recall the sensation. His hand travelled up to her shoulder, generating a tremor as it moved. When she turned to him, he had looked at her long and steadily, a different look somehow from what they had shared before. He lifted his hand, a slow, determined movement, and caressed her cheek, her jawline, her neck. Petunia kissed him deeply on the mouth, and it was as though the kiss never ended even when they ran upstairs to her room. She was like molten lava inside, and he was like a summer rain that gently touched every part of her and washed away envy, longing and loneliness in a luxurious shower of tenderness.

Over the dregs of her tea, the adult Petunia drew a deep breath and released it slowly, stealthily peering around over the lip of the cup to see if anyone noticed her suddenly brilliantly red cheeks, but the other customers seemed intent on their breakfast plates. She drained her glass of orange juice; it probably didn’t actually boil on its way down, but it certainly felt that way.

He was waiting across the street by the fence, and Petunia was almost disappointed to find him dressed in an ordinary greenish-grey suit, although his horribly clashing orange and red tie more or less met her expectations. She hurried to him with a smile, almost getting hit by an unexpected taxi in the process.

“Good morning,” he said, returning a warm smile that stirred her in places only lately stirred again after a long season of stillness. Petunia wondered if her cheeks still burned.

The “budget”, in actual real bills instead of an abstract sum to be reimbursed later, ruled out any really nice shops, but of course the point was to find inconspicuous clothing, not to parade in the streets in high fashion. After some thought she steered him to Oxford Street and its big outlets selling everyday clothes.

“You’ll want clothes in many sizes,” Petunia suggested as they browsed the racks at C&A. “Similar, but not the same. How many people are we talking about? Ten? A hundred?”

“Oh, no more than twenty. How does this look on me?” Arthur held up a bottle-green cardigan against his threadbare suit.

“This is the women’s section,” Petunia said, blushing and glancing around for disdainful looks. Rapidly she picked out four or five skirts and matching tops in shades of beige, white and grey. “I saw nicer jackets and blouses at Sainsbury’s,” she said. “Let’s look at the menswear…”

Petunia sternly vetoed most garments that Arthur, bless him, presented as possible purchases. She could not begin to fathom what use he imagined anyone would get out of a striped purple dressing-gown, let alone a pair of acid-yellow jeans (in fact Arthur ended up buying the jeans for himself, claiming they reminded him of his youth). After C&A they went through Sainsbury’s, and then Debenham’s.

“What do we do about shoes?” Petunia asked as they passed Debenham’s footwear department. “We’d need so many pairs, and they probably won’t fit anyone anyway.”

“There’s a spell for that,” Arthur said blithely.

“Really.” Petunia gave him a flat look. “And does it work on clothes as well?”

“Yes, actually.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Maybe I should have mentioned it earlier.”

“Maybe you should.” Petunia couldn’t help grinning as she piled ten pairs of shoes into her basket and Arthur’s. What a lovely way this was to pass the time. No pressure, no awkwardness, just camaraderie, and Petunia found she had been very short of camaraderie for far too long. “Never mind. Everything we bought is different anyway, it only means everyone has more choice.”

“Speaking of spells, you didn’t happen to think any further about having yourself tested for magical skills…?” Arthur asked, ruining the moment.

“Arthur, please don’t.”

“It’s only that, just in case, I made an appointment with this healer I know, he’s willing to see you on a Saturday…”

“What?!”

“… and I told him you probably wouldn’t want to. But I wanted to ask one more time.”

Jaw tightening, Petunia drew him into a corner between enormous clothes racks so they could speak unheard.

“Arthur Weasley, you just won’t stop, will you?” She glowered at him. Arguments she had run through last night galloped in her head. “Why is it so important to you? Why do you want me to be something I’m not?”

“I don’t!” Arthur exclaimed. “You’re perfect! But… I just feel like you don’t know everything about yourself yet, and, well, I’m curious, yes, I admit. But shouldn’t you be all that you can be?”

“I don’t want to know about yet another thing that I can’t be,” she hissed. “I’m normal. If that’s not enough, then too bad. It’s enough for Vernon.”

“Enough for Vernon.” Arthur briefly rubbed his face. “I see. But what about you? Is it really enough for you? Don’t you wonder at all?”

“I don’t… I couldn’t. It would be completely ridiculous at my age to find that… that I…” She felt tears rise and ignored them angrily. She had been done with this in her teens, how dare Arthur rip open the wounds and make her bleed again? The fragile vessel of her life seemed in danger of capsizing in this uncalled-for tide. “It’s over, it’s done, this is me and it’s all there is! Don’t do this to me!” Her voice rose into a little scream, and she gave the shop a frightened glance but no one seemed to have heard.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur looked… angry? More disappointed. Or only soothing. Please let it be soothing, Petunia thought, his disappointment would be too hard to bear. “You don’t have to. I just think you shouldn’t not do it only because you’re scared.”

Petunia closed her eyes briefly and sighed.

“Maybe you should go pay for those shoes now.” She shoved the basketful of footwear at him, turned away and tried to compose herself.

“Yes… yes. But can I at least buy you lunch?” Arthur said carefully, as if not to startle her. “The Leaky Cauldron does the best cottage pie I’ve ever tasted.”

“All right,” Petunia said. She smiled wanly. She might be busy trying to keep her life from falling apart, but she had no intention of letting go of Arthur a single second before she had to.

 

Arthur had been right, the cottage pie at the wizard pub was excellent, and Petunia ate heartily—strange, what an appetite she seemed to enjoy in London, when at home she hardly touched food. Little by little they recovered their normal conversation, keeping to mundane topics, although with Arthur, mundane included things like questions about how sliding doors worked and whether electric wires were different in shops than in ordinary houses. Dessert was ice-cream sprinkled with strange decorations that shot sparks, with an extremely realistic chocolate frog on top; Arthur hastily removed the latter when he caught sight of Petunia’s expression. She could have sworn it moved in his grip.

“Do you mind if I pop over to the Ministry and deliver the clothes?” Arthur asked when his ice-cream was reduced to a smear of brownish goop around the sides of the bowl. “I’ll only be a minute or two.”

“Go ahead,” Petunia said, slightly apprehensive at the thought of being left alone here even for a minute or two. Who knew what could happen in such a place? Going straight upstairs had been a completely different thing. Arthur gave her a reassuring smile and simply vanished, together with the small mountain of bags and packages they had lugged into the pub. Petunia only started a little this time. She was clearly becoming used to the strangest things.

The pub was filling up for lunch and the voices of the customers made for a pleasant, familiar murmur in the background. Petunia savoured her dessert—the spark-shooting sprinkles were not dangerous, Arthur had assured her, and in fact they were pleasantly spicy—and tried to keep herself inconspicuous.

“Mrs Dursley?” inquired an authoritative female voice. Petunia jumped and whirled around to face an elderly witch in an extremely pointy hat and black robes.

“… Yes?” Petunia stammered.

“I thought I recognised you. You won’t remember me—Minerva McGonagall. I’m Harry’s teacher at Hogwarts.”

“Oh. Of course. Yes. Pleased to meet you,” said Petunia weakly.

“May I?” said Professor McGonagall gestured at a chair and sat down without waiting for an answer. “I must say, I’m surprised but very gratified to find you here.”

“You are?”

“You’ve come to take your nephew to do his shopping for the upcoming term, I presume.” Petunia started as a pot of tea and two cups appeared of their own accord on the table. Unfazed, the Professor poured them both tea. “Where is Harry?”

“Harry’s not with me,” said Petunia. “He’s staying with friends. The Weasleys.”

“Oh, yes, I see,” said the Professor and sipped at the tea. Then she frowned. “Or rather, I don’t see. What does bring you to the Leaky Cauldron, then?”

“It’s a long story.” Petunia tried to wave away the questions with a teaspoon and an airy, if nervous, smile.

“Good, I dislike quick little anecdotes,” McGonagall said implacably and leaned comfortably back in her chair.

“It’s my fault, I’m afraid.” Arthur stepped out from behind a nearby pillar like a knight in a grey-green suit of armour and sat down at the head of the table. “Hello, Minerva, nice to see you again. Is that tea?”

Wordlessly the Professor made a little gesture with her wand and a third cup appeared, which Arthur filled. He downed almost half of it at a single gulp.

“Busy times at the Ministry, Arthur?” McGonagall’s eyebrows lifted archly.

“You have no idea. The Dark Mark at the World Cup, who would have thought… we’re swamped. I’ve hardly seen the inside of my house for two weeks.”

“I’m sorry, Ar-, er, Mr Weasley,” Petunia said, rising. “I didn’t realise…”

“Nonononono,” he protested, rising to put a hand on her arm. “Sit down—please— I assure you, you’re a welcome distraction from dark wizards and intrusive reporters.”

McGonagall gave them both a piercing look. Arthur’s open and honest eyes carefully avoided the Professor’s. Petunia had no idea what she saw in hers, but as she tore her gaze away from Arthur, she had an inkling that Professor McGonagall would not need many such glances to see too much. She really should leave.

Instead, she slowly sank back to her seat.

“I’m trying to talk Mrs Dursley into being tested, you see,” Arthur said to the Professor.

“Tested? For magical ability? Her?”

Petunia flinched, then proceeded to fume on the inside. It was hardly as far-fetched as all that! Why should the thought of her, Petunia, of all people, perhaps being able to do magic astound this dry, wrinkled witch so much?

“Well, consider Lily,” Arthur protested. “She had great ability for someone Muggle-born, and I’ve always wondered…”

“Lily was probably an isolated case,” McGonagall said, shook her head and leaned forward. “My dear Mrs Dursley, I’m sorry, but you are possibly the most normal, the most Muggle person I have ever met in my life, and your possessing any magical ability is approximately as likely as this teapot bursting into song.”

“Insufferable woman!” Petunia bristled at McGonagall’s back as the Professor disappeared in the direction of the lobby. “She has no right say that!”

“No, she doesn’t.” Arthur frowned, looked as if he would say more but deciding against it.

Arthur poured himself a second cup of tea. Petunia grasped her own cup to take a sip, remembered who had provided it and put it down again angrily, and then sniffed to cover her confusion. That woman was no better than her, witch or not, and had simply no excuse for calling her a… well, a Muggle, which was not a bad thing to be, but the way in which McGonagall had said it was like the sudden pain when grating cheese and accidentally getting one’s knuckles in the way.

“I want to do it. I want to be tested,” she blurted out.

Arthur’s face brightened. “Perfect!” he grinned, not taken aback in the least by this change of topic and of opinion. “Parsiflage is waiting for us in half an hour’s time, we’ll just make it without having to hurry.”

Petunia rose before she could change her mind, or lose her nerve. That McGonagall woman might be surprised, after all, she thought. Lily had been really good, so they had all said. Maybe some of it really did lie deep within herself, waiting to be released.

Arthur led her back to the lobby (fortunately McGonagall-free) and then out through the back of the building and straight up to a high brick wall. There he took out his wand and tapped gently on a single nondescript brick. Petunia drew a long breath as the wall began to change: first a small hole appeared in the middle, then the bricks all rearranged themselves as though falling upwards and sideways until they formed an archway decorated with monstrous shapes, like misshapen humans, all around the edges.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley,” said Arthur, gave his wand a flourish and tucked it away in his sleeve, like a magician… which of course he was, in a way. Petunia stifled a hysterical giggle. She was really doing this, going into the wizarding world for the first time since she was a girl. She felt vaguely guilty—what would Vernon think if he knew? And what would Harry think if he knew? Her nephew would never believe it…

The view through the archway was daunting: a strangely proportioned street lined with old-fashioned buildings, many sporting wooden shop signs like a dream version of a historical movie set. Everyone wore robes, some in eclectic colours, some in rich sombre tones, while some, she noted ruefully, resembled Arthur’s in their advanced degree of everyday shabbiness. As Petunia watched, one of the walkers waved her wand and simply disappeared. Then another person in turn appeared on the street and kept walking as if he had not just materialised from thin air.

“Ye comin’ or goin’?” Petunia gave a little scream as the grotesque head ornamenting the capstone spoke up impatiently. “I can’t be here all day, get along wi’you!”

Arthur took her arm and led her through, with an apologetic nod at the head who could be heard muttering behind them until the archway melted back into a solid wall of bricks.

Every third passerby seemed to be a friend of Arthur’s, it turned out, or a colleague or an old schoolmate or the parent of a child’s friend. Petunia wondered what those people were making of her at his side like this, as the oblivious Arthur had his hand up and was smiling hellos at people from the Alley entrance all the way to their destination, which proved to be a little narrow house along a side street three or four blocks or so away from Diagon Alley itself. The sign above the door proclaimed this to be “Seri Alley Clinic for Witches and Wizards—Cures for All Manner of Magical Ailments”.

Inside, a small man in a white pointy hat sat at a reception desk in the middle of a tiny front hall. Off to the side some robed patients sat not in plastic chairs but comfortable recliners to wait their turn.

“Petunia Dursley?” he asked when Arthur gently propelled Petunia in the direction of the desk. “This way, please, Healer Parsiflage is expecting you. Hello, Arthur. What’s this I hear about the World Cup?”

Arthur gave a short explanation full of unfamiliar words that Petunia failed to follow, as she had failed when Arthur had explained the same thing to McGonagall, and she vaguely wondered what the fuss was about. Still, she had more pressing matters on her mind right now than some sports event.

They were led upstairs and shown into the office of Healer Parsiflage. He was approximately Arthur’s age, with some grey in his dark hair, an old-fashioned pair of horn-rimmed spectacles balanced on his nose, and an amiable expression on his narrow face. He welcomed her with a business-like handshake before starting to interrogate Arthur about the same matter Arthur had already explained so many times. Little by little Petunia began to feel less apprehensive. She allowed her glance to travel along a long line of books on a shelf, over a desk, and the odd assortment of glassware and metal implements neatly arranged on it. There was even a little kettle… or cauldron, really. Did the man do his own cooking in this very office?

The men’s discussion concluded, Parsiflage unceremoniously banished Arthur from the room and turned to regard Petunia. She licked her lips nervously as the healer examined her with his gaze from head to well-shod toes.

“So, Mrs Dursley, you want to be tested,” Parsiflage said at length. “Why is that?”

Petunia lifted her chin. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“I only meant that at our age, you probably can’t learn to actually perform magic, even if you have the innate ability,” Healer Parsiflage explained gently. “Like a limb that is not used for a long time, magic withers away with lack of use.”

Petunia’s heart sank into her socks. Arthur had not mentioned that the general ability to do magic was not enough. So she would never learn magic, after all. Weren’t you very much against having your life change, just now? some part of her brain taunted her. She ignored it.

“I just want to know,” she finally said, and found that it was true. She wanted to know what she was, even if nothing would change afterwards, and even if she could not, after all, shut McGonagall up. “What do I do?”

“Sit down, to begin with, please,” said Parsiflage. “Tea?” Petunia shook her head, which was beginning to ache from the stress. “Very well then, let’s get to it.”

He drew a long, slender, quite straight wand from his belt. Petunia swallowed empty air and sat frozen as he touched the wand to her temples, her forehead, the top of her head, then to her heart and stomach. At each touch, her headache crescendoed and she had to fight down panic.

Parsiflage grunted and frowned. He rose from his chair and circled her, waving his wand some more while muttering under his breath. From the corners of her eyes, Petunia was absurdly frightened to see fog and flashes of light. Once her right arm went completely numb; next her left foot felt warm. Her anxiety deepened into full-blown horror.

When Parsiflage lifted the wand to the level of her eyes she flinched back violently. “Stop!” she screamed. Instantly the wand was snatched away, and as the sensations stopped, her dread abated.

Parsiflage stared at her intently for a moment. Then he turned to sit down in his desk chair and immediately swivelled to face her again.

“Mrs Dursley,” he finally said, adjusting his spectacles. “I’m afraid this has become something more than a simple test of magical ability. I believe you’ve been cursed.”

“I’m cursed? What do you mean, cursed? That’s not possible!” Petunia gasped. Parsiflage had said the fairytale word like it described a medical condition, which was completely laughable. She stared at the doctor, or healer or whatever he was, half fearing he would turn into some mythical beast—that would be hardly more startling.

“Do you think so? I could be wrong, it might just be a hex gone bad, but it can’t be a charm…” He lifted his eyebrows at Petunia, who simply blinked in confusion. “You’re not aware of anyone placing a spell on you at any point without removing it?”

That did it.

“Arthur?” she yelled, terror welling inside. When nothing whatsoever happened and no Arthur appeared, she screamed louder: “ARTHUR!”

The door crashed open. “What? What is it”? An alarmed Arthur burst in, still carrying a magazine he had picked up in the hallway.

“He says I’ve been cursed!” Petunia could not entirely keep her voice steady and the words ended in a squeak.

“What? How? Who? Parsiflage, are you sure?”

“Sure enough,” Parsiflage sniffed. “If it is a curse, and not just a fresh hex, it’s very crude, laid more than twenty years ago, I’d say. Whatever it is, or was, it completely disables her magical abilities by invoking fear whenever Mrs Dursley senses magic being performed or, presumably, tries to perform any herself.”

Petunia whimpered. Someone had wanted to hurt her so bad they had cursed her, and had managed to actually do it without her even noticing.

“But—but—but… who did this to me?” she wailed. Arthur put a calming hand on her shoulder.

“That I can’t tell you,” Parsiflage said. “The curse has worked its way in quite thoroughly, and I can’t trace it.”

“What does that mean?” She couldn’t understand any of this.

“When a curse is not lifted soon, it starts to eat into the soul of the person bearing it,” Parsiflage explained. “In a way it moulds the person to itself, until it becomes difficult to tell where the curse leaves off and the personality begins.”

“You mean nothing will change even after you take off the, the, the curse?” she moaned.

“I’m afraid not,” said Parsiflage, his eyes sympathetic. “But that’s not all. I can’t lift the curse.”

“What?!” Petunia gaped. Parsiflage leaned towards her, and she started back a little against Arthur’s hand.

“Because it’s so crude, I can’t even tell what type it is. If I can’t tell the type, I don’t know what lifts it. The only way to remove your curse is to find out who cast it and get them to remove it… or kill the person, whichever.”

 

“Well, I have no intention of killing anyone,” Petunia said, voice still shaking. They were back in the Brown Room, upstairs from the pub; Petunia had found that she could not really face the world just yet without sitting down for a while, and Arthur had commandeered the use of the ministry’s special room once again. He had even procured for them a pair of drinks, strong brown stuff he called firewhiskey, which she now sipped, much to the dismay of her tonsils.

“I don’t even know who it…” she began hoarsely, when an icy certainty suddenly washed through her. “It has to be Harry!”

“Harry? Why do you say that? Of course it’s not Harry!” Arthur spluttered.

“He’s always hated me… I just know he’s behind this,” she said miserably, astonished at the pain that the boy’s betrayal made her feel. “He must have done something, maybe years ago when he was small, he was always doing magic when he oughtn’t.”

“But he wouldn’t! Besides, he’s only fourteen,” Arthur pointed out. “Parsiflage said twenty years.”

“Oh. Of course.” She did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

Arthur tapped his finger against his lips thoughtfully. “Twenty years… it couldn’t be fourteen, but what if it was eighteen? Did something… happen, then, when we last met, that you didn’t tell me about?”

She sniffed and took another sip of firewhiskey. “Certainly no one cursed me. I’m quite sure I’d remember,” she managed to croak.

“Or maybe it was You-Know-Who’s ploy… one of his minions, sent to rid the world of Muggle-born wizards…”

“Whose?”

Arthur stared at her. “You-Know-Who’s,” he whispered, enunciating clearly.

“But I don’t know!” Petunia could only stare wide-eyed. For a second Arthur stared at her, similarly confused, but then understanding dawned.

“Yes, of course, sorry. It means…” Arthur hesitated, then settled for: “…the person who killed Lily and James.”

“Voldemort. I see,” she nodded, only to have Arthur jump almost out of his skin.

“Don’t… just don’t say that name. Please.” He shook his head, amused. “I always seem to be telling Harry the same thing, and he never minds me. Yes, I mean He Who Must Not Be Named. But why would even he…?” Arthur shook his head and took a gulp from his own drink. “I’m so sorry, Pet. I just don’t know how to help.”

They sat quiet again, until another thought took root in Petunia’s head.

“Whoever it was who cursed me… Do you think he’s done with me?” she asked timidly. “Am I in danger?”

Arthur put his hand top of hers and squeezed. His hands were pleasantly cool and the skin of his fingertips was slightly scratchy. Her spine tingled unexpectedly, inappropriately. Suddenly his presence next to her seemed to weigh more than the world.

“I’m sure you’re not. It was a long time ago.” Arthur shifted his chair closer and put an arm around her, awkwardly because of the corner of the table between them. The touch of his hand on her bare arm was tender, intimate, and she leaned a little closer to him.

“Petunia…” Arthur hesitated. “Are you going back to Little Whinging?”

“Of course I am!” Shocked, Petunia pulled back a little. “Dudley’s coming home in four days. I promised Vernon I’d be back on Sunday.”

“Oh.” Did he sound satisfied or disappointed? “It’s only… You never answered me, you know, when I asked about how things were with Vernon. Not really.”

Petunia took a deep breath and stood up.

“I don’t want to discuss it. No, I really don’t,” she interrupted Arthur with an upraised palm when he tried to protest, “and in any case, no one is less likely to have cursed me than Vernon.”

Arthur seemed on the verge of protesting that that was not what he meant, but then he paused, frowned slightly and sprang up to face her. “You know, Pet, I think we’re missing the big picture here. What was it that Parsiflage said—about your abilities?”

“That the curse disables them,” she answered, perplexed.

“And if it disables them, it means—”

The long overdue realisation left her gasping. Her heart missed several beats, and she had to grasp Arthur’s hand to steady the spinning world. “It means I have some.”

Gasping for breath she paced to the window and back, and then to the door and back. Arthur was grinning at her. “What are you laughing at?” she laughed.

“Nothing.” His grin dimmed a little. “But the curse… I only wish it could have been better news. And I hope I haven’t disrupted your life altogether.”

“I’ll worry about that tomorrow,” she said, and meant it. Tomorrow she might feel very differently, but tonight—tonight, she decided, she would be jubilant… and do her best to avoid telling everyone in the entire world, starting with Harry Potter. Actually, there was no one she could tell at all, no one but Arthur could ever know. Her legs trembled a little again and she sat down on an overstuffed leather sofa, overcome by all her conflicting emotions.

Arthur came to sit next to her and put his arm around her again. As if of their own accord, her fingers sought out his other hand and grasped it.

“It’ll be all right,” he said, and the conviction in his voice was almost enough to persuade her, too.

Arthur’s fingers were warm against the skin of her arm. She leaned into the safe curve of his body, but instead of slowing down her heart began to beat so hard that it was a wonder it didn’t crack her ribs. He tightened his grip, hugging her to him. She swallowed and drew back a little to look at his face and then, just like that, he kissed her lips with the tender welcome and wonder that brought a flood of past memories. Perhaps he felt it too, or felt the hungry response of her body, because the kiss grew more eager. Petunia, luxuriating in the feel of him, caressed his back with one hand and ran the other along his arm up to his curling red hair—when skin met skin he shivered, or perhaps it was her, feeling the touch in her spine. His blindly grasping hand found her stockinged knee and the caress of it lit up her loins.

The kiss went on for a long time, and the pulse in her chest, her head, her legs and between them, demanded more all the time. When she could finally stand it no more she broke off and unceremoniously swivelled around to straddle his lap. He gasped when they clutched at each other.

A stray thought drifted through her head for long enough that she paused and looked into Arthur’s earnest blue eyes. Something along the lines of where the past was and where it belonged. “Pet…” he breathed, perhaps struck by the same kind of thought.

“I know,” she murmured and bent to kiss him again. Sod the past, and especially sod the present day, all of it except Arthur.

Their lips began to wander, until his found just the right spot under her ear, then the other one just above her collarbone, and made her breath catch. She curled her fingers into his hair and lost herself for what felt like minutes, hours in the exquisite bliss of his tongue along her skin. She pressed herself against him as though willing their flesh to merge, while his hand dove under the hem of her dress, then up again to unzip her dress and stroke the bare skin of her back. He undid her bra with a deft flick of his fingers, and then those hands were on her breasts and they fit perfectly, just the right size for him to enfold their softness. She moaned out loud, and that brought her out of the clouds as she choked off the sound, alarmed at the thought of being heard.

“’S all right,” Arthur murmured against her cheek. “Room’s soundproofed.”

He rose and lifted her to her feet, only to lay her down on the black carpet on the robes he hastily shrugged off. All rational thought vanished into the thrill of his touch, including any worries about the quality of soundproofing in the ancient building.

Quite a while later, Arthur lifted his head and smiled at her. Petunia did not quite know what she expected him to do, perhaps get up and begin to dress, but instead he lay down beside her on the rug and on the messy pile of their clothes, propping himself up on one elbow. They lay in a pool of slanting evening sunlight and his hair made a fiery halo around his head. An odd spark in his eyes made Petunia grow serious.

“You do know, Pet, that I never stopped…” he began, but Petunia quickly reached up and put her hand over his mouth.

“Don’t,” she whispered. Some words were too dangerous to hear just now.

He understood, of course he did. His face fell just a little, and Petunia ached to kiss it all better. Instead she sat up and absently rubbed the skin on the backs of her bare thighs. The floor was starting to feel uncomfortable and she became aware of a sweeping draught. She should go, it was getting late enough for the sun to almost reach the back wall of the Brown Room, but Arthur’s skin shone such a delicious creamy white in the sunlight, his eyes sparked as he watched her standing there, and she was not quite ready yet to relinquish this—well, magical—afternoon.

“Do you see any blankets anywhere?” She peered around at the room.

“Hang on…” Arthur hunted briefly in the robes scattered around and under him until he found a sleeve, put his hand in it the wrong way and retrieved a slender round piece of wood about the length of his forearm. He gave it a wave and said something like “Vestimentio!”, and two blankets flapped through the air from the end of it, accompanied by Petunia’s startled yelp.

“I meant real ones,” she grimaced and poked one of them, brown with an unlikely pattern of orange roses, with a toe.

“They are real,” Arthur laughed. He got up and wrapped her in one of them, and certainly it felt real enough, warm and fluffy. They ended up making a nest of them on the sofa, one blanket underneath, one covering both of them, with a bowl of red grapes from the sideboard balanced in a valley of their combined topography, and talked about less awkward things like their homes and Quidditch and knitting.

Arthur’s watch chimed eventually, but he gave it a sharp crack against the corner of a table and it fell silent.

“Don’t you have to go?” Petunia asked, not sorry at all.

“Well. Everyone thinks I’m working late, and at home…” He grimaced. “No one’ll miss me.”

She studied his somewhat melancholy profile. “You keep asking about me and Vernon,” she said, “but should I be asking about you and Molly? I mean…” She hesitated and ate a grape to cover it. “I mean, we’re… here.”

“Well. Obviously there’re things…” He broke off sharply, considered for a moment and sighed. “I simply don’t really feel like I have any use at home. Molly has this whole other life, hunting dark wizards with a completely unofficial group, a circle of friends, and I go to work every day and come home every day and it makes no difference whether I do or not. But Pet, I don’t want to spoil today by pouring all this on you.”

They were both quiet for a moment.

“We should probably get out of this room, though,” he finally said, humour back in his voice, “before the Minister for Magic gets it into his head to entertain his Alley connections in here or whatnot. Be a bit of a surprise to find us in here.”

“You could walk me to my hotel,” she suggested. “If you don’t mind. I’m so distracted I’ll just walk into a tree or fall into the river if I try walking back on my own.”

“Of course I will. Couldn’t have your beautiful nose be squashed against a tree trunk,” Arthur chuckled and rose.

It would have been nice to hold Arthur’s hand and really pretend the clock had turned back twenty years, but even in the evening Diagon Alley was mobbed with people who knew Arthur so they had to be satisfied with occasionally brushing shoulders or hips with each other.

“Is it always this busy here?” Petunia asked, dodging out of the way of a rather large witch carrying two broomsticks. A figure dressed in blue robes trod on her foot, turned to apologise, nodded greetings to Arthur and went on his way.

“Not always. Mostly it’s last minute shopping—it’s the last weekend before the term starts at Hogwarts and everyone’s buying supplies. Oh, that reminds me!” Arthur stopped dead in the middle of the street, ignoring the people casting annoyed looks their way. “There’s a book I really need to get tonight for Fred and George. We always get ours at Sultany’s Secondhand Shop, let’s… I mean…” Arthur trailed to an awkward halt and cleared his throat. “It might be best if I went alone. Tatty Sultany’s a dreadful gossip.”

“I’ll just do a bit of window shopping in the meanwhile,” Petunia offered smoothly. If word got back to Molly, she would at the very least wonder why Arthur was escorting Harry’s aunt around Diagon Alley—and at worst, if Arthur had confessed to their relationship all those years ago, realise who she was.

To a quick, careless glance, wizard shops seemed quite the same as ordinary ones, but revealed their true nature on closer inspection. One sold robes in various colours, draped over mannequins that startled Petunia by shifting into new poses every few seconds. There was also a bookshop that would have seemed quite ordinary if it hadn’t been for the moving, waving author photos in the displays and the titles of the books themselves. Another shop’s display windows were empty, defeating somewhat the point of having display windows in the first place, Petunia thought, but the store’s name plaque bore the golden words Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. Perhaps this was where Harry had bought the wand that Vernon had sworn he would grind into tiny pieces if he ever saw it around the house… In fact, was this also the place where Lily had got hers? Petunia turned her head this way and that, trying to remember, but it had been so long ago.

It was so very odd to be here alone, even if only for a few minutes, even if Arthur was no more than a hundred feet away. Petunia felt out of place and exposed, an intolerable feeling for which she blamed the strange unnatural laws—or rather supernatural laws, she corrected herself out of courtesy towards Arthur—of Diagon Alley. It was probably for the best, she thought, that she would never be a part of this. She was too old to start learning how to live her life all over again. The teenage years had been bad enough. She gazed at her reflection in the bookshop window, at the image of a pinched-looking woman in her early forties wearing a desperately ordinary flowered dress and a nervously perfect hairdo, alien among the be-robed populace reflected behind her back.

“All set, we can go now,” Arthur said, coming up beside her with a book-shaped package under his arm. Then he took a second look at her. “What is it?”

She shrugged off the melancholy with an almost physical effort and smiled a little.

“Nothing,” she lied. “Let’s go.”

 

“There’s a message for you, Mrs Dursley,” said the hotel receptionist and proffered a folded note, her face carefully bland. “Your husband called while you were away.”

Petunia eyed the note with distaste and had to force herself to take it from the girl’s hand. Meeting customer contact on Sunday, come home tonight to iron shirt. The writing was a woman’s but the words were all Vernon, and she could practically see even the words that the receptionist had not written down.

She was surprised by the strength of the anger that electrified her. How dare he even think he could summon her home like that, cut short her holiday to iron his shirt? And it galled even worse to think that, without Arthur, she might actually have entertained the idea; and if Vernon had caught her on the telephone, alone, she might actually have caved in and gone back home just so she could feel needed and not have to think about what Parsiflage had told her. But now… thank heavens for Arthur. She crumpled up the note and flung it angrily into the nearest dustbin.

“Is something wrong?” Arthur’s concern was instant and genuine.

“No, nothing.” She swiped a stray curl of hair back behind her ear where it belonged and looked across at Arthur. “Do you want to come upstairs for some tea?”

He only hesitated a beat. “Yes. Sounds wonderful.”

“The lift’s over here,” she said, then in a flash realized that the receptionist girl was witnessing all this. She could hardly pretend now that Arthur was her husband who had unexpectedly joined her in London. Blushing, she turned on her heel, took Arthur’s hand and drew him into the lift, determined not to care and equally determined never to return to this hotel again. But as the lift doors slid shut she caught a glimpse of the reception desk and the grinning girl giving her a discreet double thumbs-up sign.

 

”We’ll see each other again.” In spite of his words, Arthur sounded a little subdued.

Petunia craned her neck to peer at the displays of Paddington Station, avoiding his eyes by pretending to search for the four o’clock train which she could see perfectly well. Platform five. She reached for her suitcase but Arthur picked it up.

“Or will we?” he continued even more quietly as they started walking past the bookshops and chip shops and information desks. They were well on time in spite of Arthur’s endearing habit of getting excited about escalators and sliding doors, of which they had encountered quite a few on their way here.

“Maybe,” Petunia sighed after an eternal pause, “but things get in the way. Life. Families. You have yours, I have mine. It’s best not to make any big promises we can’t keep. Right, there’s my train.” Petunia drew a shuddering breath to start the dreaded business of goodbyes, but Arthur spoke first.

“Pet, I know this isn’t much, but…” He proffered a small box. “Here. For you. To remember me by.”

Touched to the bottom of her heart, she opened the box. Inside was a little item, about the size of the tip of her thumb, made of rubber, attached to a chain. They made an odd pair. The chain was silver but the pendant was really a child’s toy, probably once part of a keychain or some collectible set. It depicted a teapot with a woman’s kind face, the spout serving as the nose, mouth open in laughter or song.

“When I saw it, I remembered what McGonagall said to you about singing teapots,” Arthur explained and then chuckled. “It’s a charmed Muggle artefact, and Tatty Sultany was quite happy to have it off her hands before I, an official of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, reported her to the Ministry for its possession. She gave me a bargain on the chain, too.”

“Arthur, honestly!” Petunia snorted, slightly outraged but still amused and quite, quite glad, which suddenly turned into apprehensiveness. “Did you say charmed?”

“A weak healing charm had been put on it,” he said dismissively. “Nothing dangerous.”

He helped her with the chain. She half expected to feel the terror of the curse when the charm touched her skin, but instead the feel of Arthur’s fingers on the nape of her neck gave her a vivid flashback to the pleasures of the night before, and she found it hard not take half a step back and lean into his warm embrace. She inhaled the smell of engine oil and the hint of owl that clung even to his Muggle clothes, and wondered when—or if—she would smell it again.

They parted with no more than a squeeze of hands and a long look, and Petunia started her long journey back to Little Whinging, and back to Vernon whose tantrums she now felt much better prepared to withstand.

 

Despondent, Arthur watched the train pull out of the station and disappear into the afternoon glare outside, and wondered whether he should have told her about having strengthened the healing charm on the little teapot. But she was not really in a condition to be told. If the charm did its work, she would eventually not mind; if it didn’t, well, why say anything if it had no effect?

Only when the train was quite gone did he sigh and turn away to head towards Kensington Gardens and the nearest entrance to the Ministry. He would spend a few hours at work, where really he should have been spending his time all weekend and where his desk was now bound to be completely hidden under piles of Notices of Charmed Muggle Objects and Requests for Obliviation.

Seeing Petunia again was more than worth it. He smiled to himself as he remembered Petunia’s smile, so often a little wry, and her smooth, lovely skin under his fingertips.

He could scarcely believe what had happened. Ever since he had sat down to his breakfast three years ago only to realise that he was sharing the table with Lily and James’s actual son, Petunia’s nephew, he had ached to make up some excuse to meet her—while at the same time dreading any such meeting, because even after all the years that had passed since their parting, he had known he still loved her. He loved Molly, too, of course, but… But. Still. Was it possible to love two people at once? Apparently yes.

And then the World Cup had opened that door. He’d had to go—the alternative, having Molly visit Petunia and her Muggle husband, was unthinkable, not only because Molly hardly knew the first thing about Muggles but also because, in truth, the thought of Molly and Petunia meeting without him being there made him cringe. So he had gone to fetch Harry, building up his façade of amiable curiosity for days beforehand, and just managing to maintain it through their meeting by the skin of his teeth. And that should have been that… except that, in his fevered state afterwards, he had then written to her.

How could he now ever hope to un-fall in love with her?


	2. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petunia's dreams are becoming... unexpected.

”But I don’t want to go to Gramma’s!”

Vaguely Petunia knew she was dreaming, but that did nothing to diminish the anger and sense of injustice that her five-year-old self had felt that day. She wore her best yellow dress, white lacy hat and white lace gloves, spotless stockings and shiny red shoes. A red purse lay helter-skelter in the corner where she had flung it. Little Lily stared at her wide-eyed from their mother’s arms, unable to comprehend why her big sister was less than delighted to be dressed so prettily and why she was throwing around that lovely suitcase.

“Tuney dear,” said her father. “Gramma Elizabeth is expecting you. Your cousins will be there. It’ll be fun…”

“No, it won’t!” Petunia sobbed. “It’s never fun! She just makes me sit in the living-room and drink tea and listen to her stupid old stories.”

She flung herself onto the bottom step, crossed her arms and made herself as small as she could.

“Petunia Ann Evans, stop your silliness this instant. You’re talking about my aunt!” Father’s voice was stern. Petunia scowled at him and he scowled back.

Gramma always kept one eye on her and Helen all the time and punished them, usually Petunia, for doing anything she had not specifically allowed as being normal for a little girl, and Gramma’s idea of ‘normal’ failed to include things like fidgeting at the dinner table or running or talking during Gramma’s boring stories. Spending the day at her house was pure torture. But telling her parents about it would get her nowhere; Petunia absolutely knew that they would either not believe her or would simply make her go anyway.

“You’re going, and that’s that, even if I have to carry you to the car. And what would the neighbours say if they saw us carrying a big five-year-old like a baby, hmm?” 

Petunia’s stomach knotted. That old lady across the street would see it. And the two boys next door, who would tell everybody at preschool. And she would still end up at Gramma’s, who would not be happy to hear of her making a scene. Reluctantly she rose to her feet.

“That’s it, Tuney,” said her mother, relief writ large on her face. She repositioned baby Lily in her arms. “Now give us a kiss, darling! You’ll be back home before you know it, and you’ll make Gramma so happy. You know she sets such store by these visits.”

After a much too brief ride in the car Petunia found herself before Gramma’s house, rather grander than her own home, and possessing both a front and a back garden that any child would find enchanting; until, that was, their great-aunt discovered said child looking for fairies in the rhododendron bushes with her cousin or pretending to be princesses or magicians or unicorns, and hauled them both back inside by their ears. Petunia kept her eyes strictly forward and stared at the dark wood of the door until it creaked open to admit her.

The hallway was not at all the dark, dreary corridor that a grown-up might have expected. The stairs were painted white, the wallpaper an inoffensive pattern of forget-me-nots, and the coloured lead glass window over the door cast a patch of brightness like a broken rainbow on the meticulously clean floor. Petunia broke into a smile when she noticed her bigger cousin Helen, all of eight years old, sitting on the stairs. Gramma, her tall form bent over a walking stick, measured Petunia up and down with a steely eye, judging her attire and demeanour and finding her wanting, as usual. Finally the old woman gave a sniff and wrinkled her scarred face as if to say Well, if I must I must, and motioned them towards the parlour.

Behind her, the front door shut with a muted clap like a small thunderstorm.

As always, Gramma told them to make and serve her tea, and sat them in the parlour with glasses of milk and slices of ancient sponge cake while she regaled them with stories calculated to illustrate the perils of unusual behaviour. Petunia and Helen glanced at each other or the clock on the mantlepiece every time Gramma took a sip of tea, the only time her attention wavered from them, and waited.

Little by little, Gramma’s speech slowed and longer and longer pauses intruded between sentences; then between half-sentences, then words, and finally the wrinkled old lady was reduced to nodding between monosyllables. In breathless silence, Petunia and Helen watched her chin slowly dip closer to her chest, until finally she answered the call of sleep with periodic snores.

“I found the key,” Helen whispered as soon as Gramma could not reasonably be expected to take any note. “It’s in the little bowl on the dresser in the upstairs hallway. Let’s go.”

Helen got up silently, but Petunia looked at the sleeping Gramma and her belly filled with apprehension. “Should we? I mean, what if she wakes up?” she hissed.

“She always sleeps for exactly half an hour.” Helen beckoned impatiently. “Come on!”

Not really wanting to but yearning to see what was behind the locked door they had found months ago already, Petunia got up very slowly and carefully. Gramma’s snores accompanied their tiptoe steps out into the front hall. Helen shut the door behind them, making them both wince and then giggle as the latch clicked loudly in the silence but without disturbing Gramma.

Helen led Petunia straight to a ringful of keys in a little green bowl in the exact middle of a lace doily in the exact middle of an oblong dresser. Some of the keys looked very old, and only one was brand new; one was very large, the others quite small. At the end of the hallway, past Gramma’s bedroom, was a door that was locked shut, and into the lock of this door they inserted keys until one elderly, midsize one unexpectedly worked. The lock gave a dreadfully loud groaning snap as it opened and they both jumped a foot, but no startled snort of a waking Gramma could be heard, nor a heavy tread on the stairs. When they could breathe again they pushed open the door.

Petunia quite liked the light, airy spare bedroom that was revealed, but Helen huffed in disappointment. “I thought it would be something exciting,” she muttered. Petunia stroked the intricately crocheted bedspread and admired the way the holes in the design revealed a layer of woven blue fabric underneath, while Helen took a cursory tour of the room, opening cupboards and drawers. There was a brief moment of excitement when she found a locked wardrobe, but when they used one of the keys to open it, it revealed nothing but a rack full of men’s clothes which Helen concluded must have belonged to Gramma’s long-deceased husband.

But then Petunia, kneeling down to tie her shoelace, spotted a lock where no lock should be—on the side of the bench set inside the room’s bay window. She pointed it out to Helen, who pounced upon it and began to fit keys into it until the small, shiny new one turned. Together they lifted the heavy top of the bench and jumped back when the front also smacked down on the floor, the sound muffled by the heavy carpet. 

Inside was a trunk, an old-fashioned leather travel trunk with the name “Dahlia Merrywell” written across the top in fancy gold lettering. Petunia’s breath came faster as Helen, eyes shining, attacked the lock of the trunk in turn and almost instantly got it open with the oldest, largest key in the ring.

The lid screeched open reluctantly to reveal what to Petunia was a haphazard collection of unidentifiable junk. Helen picked up a swath of black fabric, which proved to be an odd dress of sorts with grey and green accents. Not to be outdone, Petunia peered inside and reached for the first item she could make anything of, lifting out a round length of dark wood about the length of her arm. Her fingers had just closed around it when behind them came the loud crash of a door being thrown open and a creaky, wordless scream. Petunia spun around and screamed, too, tossing the wooden object as far away from herself as she could, not knowing if it had really burned her hand or if she had imagined it, and then she had to protect herself from the blows that Gramma began to rain upon both of them with her walking stick.

“YOU HORRIBLE LYING SNEAKS! UNNATURAL SPAWN OF FILTH! GET AWAY FROM THERE! YOU NEVER SAW THAT!” she screeched, abandoned the stick and reached for Petunia with her long, wrinkled hands…

 

In her quiet bedroom in 4 Privet Drive, the adult Petunia opened her eyes to the dark ceiling, heart drumming wildly and throat still aching from some sound that must have escaped from it. Beside her, Vernon muttered angrily and turned over. The dream was slow to evaporate and the cracks in the ceiling seemed to form the shrieking form of Gramma Elizabeth’s ancient face.

Petunia got up, careful not to wake the snoring Vernon, and on unsteady feet padded downstairs into the kitchen, whole body still tingling with fright. It was the one place where she always felt safe, the mistress of her dominion, and where she always went to calm herself with the sight of spotlessly clean surfaces and gleaming appliances. It was four o’clock. The whole world was dark, not even the milk would be delivered for another hour, and the kitchen was chilly at this hour of the night. She shivered and wrapped herself more tightly in her dressing-gown as she sat down at the table with a glass of cold water from the jug in the refrigerator. She stared for a long time at the lace doily under the vase of fresh flowers from the Farmer’s Market yesterday and did not really want to think about her dream.

Why had she suddenly dreamed about that visit? She had not spared a thought for the dreaded Gramma in years, although as a child she had had frequent nightmares about her spotless house and her musty clothes and her wrinkled, scarred face thrust into her own, which had in fact happened regularly, whenever Gramma shrieked at her for not bringing the slippers quickly enough or wearing her hair wrong or not being a normal child. But that room, that trunk, that… whatever she had picked up…?

Petunia’s breath caught as though her insides had been caught in a hoover. Instinctively she fumbled for the little teapot she wore on a silver chain around her neck, always conscientiously hidden inside her clothing, and clasped it in a trembling hand. The thing she had picked up—it had clearly been a wand.

Since Arthur had taken her to Healer Parsiflage five months ago, Petunia had had stranger dreams than ever before. She had seen her mother and father more times than she could count; Lily and James; even that strange boy who had spied on them, what was his name—Syracuse? Septimus? Severus? And of course Arthur. From those dreams she usually woke sweaty and frankly horny, to the extent that she had once even contemplated waking Vernon although one look at the drool dripping down the side of his fat jowls had quickly dissuaded her from that notion. 

This dream was new. Unlikely as it was, Petunia had utterly forgotten about the forbidden visit to the spare bedroom, but now she was reminded, she knew she had seen not a dream but a memory. She had fallen asleep last night thinking about her curse and wondering where it had come from, so why had her subconscious decided to show her this? 

Gramma Elizabeth, Petunia’s father’s aunt, had been born in the previous century and ended up as a querulous widow in a perfectly ordinary house in Putney. The old lady’s face had been scarred across the left cheekbone, and she had used the word normal quite a lot, but by the time Petunia came to stay with her when she left Cokeworth for secretarial school the woman had mellowed somewhat from the harridan of Petunia’s childhood. Gramma had been the most decidedly proper person who ever lived, and her definition of propriety would absolutely not have included magic. Petunia and Lily had even joked (in hushed voices) about what would have happened to Lily’s Hogwarts invitation if Gramma had ever heard of it.

Lily was never sent to Gramma with Petunia, even when she was older… especially not when she was older, when odd, not-normal things kept happening around Lily, things that even their parents on some level knew about, even while trying to ignore them as impossible. Petunia, though, had always been going… and ever since she could remember, Gramma had watched her like a hawk to make sure nothing untoward ever took place. The old woman had spanked her more than once in the mistaken belief that she, Petunia, had somehow made something, anything, strange happen.

So plainly Gramma could have nothing to do with the curse… could she?

If only she had someone to ask about Gramma. But everyone who might have known was now dead: Lily, their parents, their aunts and uncles. What about Helen? She was still alive and well, as far as Petunia knew, and a mother to two girls whom Petunia had never met—they had lost touch since Petunia’s and Vernon’s wedding. It would be awkward, but who else could she turn to? 

That was it. She would ask Helen, very carefully, if Gramma had had a friend, or if they had met anyone else at the house who could have actually cast a curse, either at Gramma’s behest or without her knowledge. Someone who did not want Petunia to grow up to be a witch.

Maybe she should write to Arthur. 

She had sternly resisted the temptation all autumn, for all that every now and then she found her hands straying towards pen and paper, or her mind wandering to compose a letter whenever she had a moment to herself. Better not to risk it. The last thing she wanted from him was apologetic regrets, which was by far the most likely outcome if she tried to contact him. 

And anyway, he was in no hurry to write to her, was he?

 

It was past Christmas and New Year before Petunia managed to dig up Helen Wood’s telephone number, phoned her and invited the astonished woman to tea. She found herself humming cheerfully as she prepared the steak and kidney pie she would serve as both tea and conversation opener—she knew hers was much better than what they had used to eat at Gramma’s.

“Can’t you stop that noise,” Vernon grumbled in a muffled voice from the sitting-room. “I’m watching the telly! Can’t hear a thing!”

Petunia sighed. “Vernon, you’re not eating crisps before tea, are you?” She went into the sitting-room where Vernon had very obviously just stuffed something behind his back in a great hurry. 

“Of course not!” he snorted. Bits of crisp flew out of his mouth. Petunia closed her eyes briefly and quietly clicked her tongue.

“Why does your cousin have to come here for tea?” Vernon complained next, trying to distract her. 

“Because I invited her, and because I haven’t seen her for years,” Petunia replied patiently. 

“We could have invited Marge,” said Vernon disapprovingly. 

“How is that the same thing? Marge is not Helen,” she snapped. 

“At least the Potter boy isn’t here,” Vernon grimaced, ignoring her. “The lunatics won’t quite be running the asylum, eh?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Helen,” Petunia said coldly.

“She’s your damned cousin,” barked Vernon. “You know what your family’s like.” He had always been deeply suspicious of all members of Petunia’s family. Lily, of course, had been in a class all her own, but apparently as far as Vernon was concerned anyone from the same family was suspect. For most of their marriage, Petunia had shared this prejudice, but lately she had found herself thinking it rather a pity that it had resulted in her falling completely out of touch with all her relatives. Her family was small enough to begin with.

Petunia turned and went back into the kitchen without another word. She began to prepare the salad and forced herself to feel nothing, no anger, no hurt, not even exasperation. It was only Vernon, and what he said was usually best ignored. But unbidden in her mind rose an image of how things would be if it was not Vernon but Arthur, who would have been delighted to meet a new Muggle relative of hers, who would perhaps have helped her clean the house or at least chop the meat and veggies for the pie, smiling and chatting all the while.

Instead, she had Vernon.

There was a crashing noise from nearby. Petunia snapped back into reality and stared, uncomprehending, at the salad bowl whose remains, in thousands of shards, lay scattered all over the floor.

“What was that?” rang out Vernon’s startled voice. The chair creaked and Vernon puffed as he rose with an effort and shuffled into the kitchen. When he saw the mess he scowled. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry.” The words were out of Petunia’s mouth before she knew it. “I’ll clean it up, don’t worry. We have another bowl.” She kneeled to pick up the pieces of stoneware, tomatoes and salad. Vernon grunted and heaved himself back into the sitting-room. Petunia ignored the cuts on her hands that stung from the touch of the tomatoes.

An hour later the pie was cooling on the stove, a new salad had been tossed in the second-best bowl, Petunia’s tears had dried, and everything was ready for the visitor who rang the doorbell promptly at one minute past five. Petunia swallowed nervously as she opened the door.

“Tuney?” asked the short, plump woman on the doorstep and smiled from under a red umbrella. She had shoulder-length dark blonde hair, a taupe winter coat and red wellingtons, and she held out her hand invitingly. Petunia took it automatically and went into hostess mode.

“Helen, how lovely to see you!” she exclaimed and threw open the door. “After all these years! Come in, do, get yourself out of the rain…”

Helen proved to be a cheerful, chatty person, not much like her young self who had been prone to sullenness, although Petunia had to admit that holidays at Gramma’s would have made anyone sullen. Quite soon even Vernon’s mood improved, assisted by a judicious dose of brandy in his tea. 

“Ooooh, steak and kidney pie!” Helen smiled broadly when Petunia carried her bravura to the table. “It’s so hard to get a good pie these days. Where did you buy it?”

“I made it myself,” Petunia beamed. “From start to finish.”

“Really? I can’t be bothered to cook these days, with the children at school. Ohhh, this is excellent.” Helen closed her eyes in enjoyment as she chewed. “A far cry from Gramma’s dreadful pie. Remember? Full of gristle...”

“And squishy bits! It was horrible!” They shared a laugh. 

“You know, I was really quite surprised when you phoned me, Petunia,” Helen said before Petunia could continue on the subject of Gramma. “Thirty years, hasn’t it been, at least? Whatever made you remember your old cousin now?”

“To be honest,” Petunia said after both she and Vernon had made the appropriate pooh-poohing noises about Helen not being old at all, “I had a dream. I know, it’s strange, but there you have it. I had a dream about going to Gramma’s, and I started thinking about those days and about you, and...” she stammered to a halt. She could hardly start that conversation with Vernon here, could she? So she shrugged and smiled. “In any case, it’s lovely to see you again.”

“Your son’s away at school?” Helen asked. 

“Yes, Dudley goes to Smeltings,” said Vernon proudly. “Great school, Smeltings. I used to go there.”

“My two girls go to Harringdon’s,” said Helen, and off they were comparing the two schools, then moving on to houses and jobs. Helen had divorced her daughters’ father, making her life very different from the Dursleys’, which was fortunate in that it allowed Vernon, who disapproved of divorce, to maintain a sense of superiority that kept him in a good mood.

After tea, Helen insisted on helping Petunia with the dishes. Vernon withdrew into his castle-like chair in the living-room with a glass of whisky in hand and turned on the telly, blind and deaf to a world that included dishes and cleaning up. 

This was Petunia’s chance.

“Do you remember how Gramma always made us do the dishes?” she began. 

“With that disgusting old brush and watered-down soap, yes! She was a harpy.” Helen shook her head, reached for a plate and dried it on one of Petunia's nicer kitchen towels. “Remember that shrunken skull she had in that cabinet?”

“No!” Petunia gasped. “What skull?”

“In the parlour. You really don’t remember? You hated it, you refused to go anywhere near it. She said it had been her father’s… and I was never sure if she meant it had belonged to him or if it was his actual head.”

Helen laughed, but Petunia shuddered.

“I wonder what else I’ve forgotten,” she said shakily. Besides the things I’ve remembered now… Then she took a deep breath to drive out nervousness. She had to take the plunge, she had to ask her question if she was ever going to. She had made up a likely cover story, now was the time to trot it out. “Helen… about that dream I had. I’m afraid there’s more to it than I said.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Something happened to me… something really strange.” The words came slowly, forced out of her mouth one by one, framed with panic over whether Helen would simply think her mad. “And I woke up from that dream thinking it might have happened at Gramma’s, that someone did something and I… Oh, never mind, it’s probably nothing,” Petunia hastily back-pedalled after one look at Helen’s wide-eyed horror. “I, I, I dreamed it. Just a dream. It made me wonder who else might have been there besides us, that’s all.”

“There wasn’t anyone else there, ever. Well, sometimes Michael, but that’s not what you mean, is it,” Helen said, mentioning her younger brother who had been only a little older than Lily. Petunia had in fact forgotten that he had ever come with them, too. Helen’s expression became searching. “Gramma was enough. What’s this about?”

“I… nothing. Probably nothing. I don’t know.” Petunia busied herself with the dishwasher, feeling Helen’s eyes on her back. Her insides felt liquid. She couldn’t do this. She just couldn’t. She would take the unused cutlery and escape into the living-room to put it away in the cabinet… 

The teapot pendant swung out from under her dress. Hastily she turned away and tucked it out of sight, but its very touch seemed to give her courage and remind her why she had invited Helen in the first place. What did it matter what Helen thought of her? She had no reason ever to see her again, if she didn’t want to.

“Actually, I do know.” Petunia straightened and faced Helen. “Something did happen to me, and really I think it must have been at Gramma’s house. Someone did a thing that wasn't... ordinary. Something…” She faltered, nerve almost failing again. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Something magic.”

“Magic.” 

“Inexplicable, I mean. It couldn’t have been Gramma…”

“Couldn’t it?” Helen’s expression took on a strange intensity. She seemed to debate within herself briefly, then came to a decision. “Petunia, what do you know about magic?”

Time slowed down. Petunia felt herself arriving at one of those crossroads in life, where the answer she gave would make the difference between one future and another, between one Petunia and another. On the one hand, the path labelled “Nothing, I didn’t mean anything by it” took her safely back to the path of who she had been: wife and mother, normal, just a woman with an ordinary life, with maybe just a little extraordinary spice in it. 

The other path led to some unknown place, waiting to eat her up and regurgitate some mutated version of her into a new life with rules that were strange to her but where she might be... more.

“My sister went to Hogwarts,” she whispered. 

“Lily? Really? How lovely!” Helen exclaimed to Petunia’s immense shock. 

She shushed her cousin urgently. “Vernon doesn’t want her talked about,” she whispered. 

“I see,” Helen whispered back. Petunia thought that she certainly did see, even more than she, Petunia, had said. “Well, Michael went there too. He married this lovely girl right out of school, a witch, and their children all went to Hogwarts.”

“Your brother Michael?” Petunia’s head spun. “But then... Lily really wasn’t the only one.”

Suddenly a huge vista of possibilities opened up in Petunia’s imagination. All her life she had been accustomed to thinking of Lily as unique in their family. And then there was Harry, of course, who she couldn’t bear to mention to Helen yet because she could not control the muddle of emotions surrounding him in her heart, but Harry was in this sense merely an extension of Lily. If she herself, Petunia, had once had that ability, it was just a small widening of that crack in the doorway, but this… How many witches and wizards were there in the family?

“And that’s not all.” Helen sat down at the kitchen table, looking mysterious. Knees shaking, Petunia joined her. “Here’s a thing my mum told me that her own dad told her: Gramma’s husband was a right bastard who used to beat her up. What was strange was that Jack, the husband, was really afraid of Gramma. He told my grandad about it one night in the pub. And then one day Jack took a crowbar to Gramma, but before he got in more than one blow, he exploded. Literally exploded. Right in their parlour. The one Gramma always made us sit in.”

“But…”Petunia’s eyes felt like they would pop out of her head. Underneath that ivy-patterned wallpaper must be another layer, then, splashed with… A violent shudder of nausea ran through her and she turned her thoughts aside. She lifted her hand to her neck and surreptitiously toyed with the teapot charm.

“I know. She wasn’t a witch and I don’t know how but I think she did it. Her mother had a wand though. You remember that, don’t you? The trunk in the spare bedroom?” Helen looked at Petunia curiously, but she could only shake her head, not in denial but something between despair and hope. After a pause, Helen continued: “I wonder what became of it. My parents got some of Gramma’s furniture and things when she died, and I’m actually still using that parlour table, but I never saw the trunk again.”

Petunia started to shrug but gasped instead when, like finding a longed-for piece of jewellery behind the sofa cushions, she remembered. “I know what became of it. It’s in our attic.”

 

It must have been some quirk of the curse, Petunia thought as she opened the attic door and climbed the narrow stairs. Forgetting a scene like the one in the spare bedroom did not happen by accident, and she must have seen that trunk in the attic a dozen times without thinking anything of it, certainly without opening it. And there it was again, one corner of it quite visible under a pile of small items of furniture and bags and boxes full of Dudley’s baby clothes and toys, directly opposite the door. After Gramma died childless, her possessions had been distributed between the remaining family, of which there was little. The bulk of everything had gone to Helen’s and Petunia’s families, as they had been the only ones to remain in contact. Now, after passing through Petunia’s childhood home and attic, what was left of that pile was here—including the trunk.

She had barely slept all night and had been so distracted at breakfast that she had accidentally served Vernon tomatoes instead of bacon with his eggs and the offended man, whose head was tender after last night’s whisky, had stormed off an hour earlier than usual. This suited Petunia very well.

After four hours of dragging and pushing and reorganising and stopping to hoover and wipe, she had finally freed the trunk of the accumulation of life. Petunia dragged it further inside the attic room to have more space, finding it lighter than she expected. It was also smaller than she expected, as in the five-year-old’s memory it had been big enough for her to fit inside.

She had gone through old photo albums the night before to find out about Dahlia Merrywell, and come to the conclusion that she must have been Gramma’s father’s mother. That would make Dahlia her own great-great-grandmother, which was two steps further than anyone had ever bothered to trace their family tree.

She took a deep breath and bent to open the trunk, but then was suddenly brought up short against the reality of having no idea where the key could be. It was not in the lock, and try as she might, Petunia could not remember seeing the keyring from the dream anywhere. How utterly frustrating! She had to know what was inside, and she was so close only to be now denied access. Could she pick the lock? Perhaps—if she had a set of lock picks and even a rudimentary idea about how to go about it. She retrieved a prybar from a box full of tools conveniently at hand and tried to lever the lid off, but only succeeded in scratching the leather and breaking off the heel of her house slippers. Sweat running down her forehead, she sat down on the trunk itself to work out her next move. Vernon would no doubt have the trunk open in a jiffy, he was handy that way, but of course asking him was completely out of the question. 

The image of Arthur conjuring up blankets rose in her mind and she sat up straighter. Surely, if he could produce blankets from thin air, he could open one recalcitrant lock. She still had not heard from him since London, though, so perhaps he would rather not be bothered. Then again, what choice did she have—wait until summer and ask Harry? 

 

“Exploded? Really?”

Petunia might have guessed that Arthur would react less with horror than with curiosity. It wasn’t that he was unfeeling, quite the contrary, but he tended to become a bit obsessed with anything he did not understand. She poured them both a cup of tea.

Arthur’s reply to her letter had come very quickly; he had telephoned her the same evening, proposing that they meet, but in the event it was another two weeks, two very long weeks, before he was able to get away from both work and home.

“That’s what Helen said. You don’t think it could have been Gramma who cursed me, do you? She was never taught to do magic.” Please say it couldn’t have been, she prayed internally. “She was… quite like me.”

“You’re not like that,” Arthur said decisively and took her hand. It made her feel a little safer. “You’d never make people explode.”

Personally, Petunia was not entirely sure. Since hearing about Gramma’s husband’s gruesome fate she had had dreadful dreams of what might happen to Vernon one of these days—what she might do. Granted, some were humorous in the light of day, like the dream where she made his whiskers grow so large that they covered him from head to toe and filled his mouth so he couldn’t speak, but these dreams did not make up for the nights when she woke up sweating and screaming, convinced that she was covered in pieces of Vernon’s bloody flesh and brain. She felt like a tightrope walker, an accident waiting to happen, and was more afraid than ever of becoming angry or upset.

“It’s quite common in children, before they go to school and learn to control their magic,” Arthur continued, still holding her hand. “Hogwarts and the Ministry have their ways of detecting magic by any children under school age, and they rely on that to tell them which Muggle-born children to invite to school. I have no idea how your Gramma would have slipped through that net.”

“I do,” said Petunia, who had worked out the timing during one of her sleepless nights. “Gramma’s family lived in Australia for a few years when she was young.”

“That would do it,” Arthur sighed. “Then it could definitely have been her. Which isn’t saying that it was.”

Petunia watched their fingers twine together and marvelled at the comfort of his touch, familiar as though they had never parted. This was not the touch of a man who had been avoiding her for almost half a year… Oh, sod it, she thought. It is what it is. I’ll enjoy this, him, while I can.

“She died fifteen years ago,” Petunia said. With her other hand she let herself absently pick some lint off the sleeve of Arthur’s purple robes. Their arms made an odd pair on the table, his outlandish velvet sleeve paired with her pale yellow cardigan.

“Remember what Parsiflage said about curses eating their way into the victim?” Arthur said. Petunia nodded despondently. “Have you managed to work out more about how long you’ve borne it? When it was done?”

“And how much of myself is really me, and how much might be Gramma’s worst,” Petunia said. An unexpected tear rolled down her nose, followed by another, and another. “I don’t know,” she sobbed. “I’ve been thinking of little else and I just don’t know.”

What a different view it gave of her life, to think that it might not be what she would have chosen without the curse. What profession would she have chosen to pursue? And would she have chosen Vernon? Would she have chosen a life alone? Or Arthur—not that that had been her choice to make. Or someone completely different? But without Vernon, there would be no Dudley, and that thought was horrible, unthinkable. 

“No! That’s not what I mean at all!” Arthur shifted his chair closer to hers and put his arm around her shoulders. “Do you want to go back to Parsiflage? Try to be healed from it?”

“Do you think I should?”

“I don’t think anything. I can take you, if you want to. If you don’t want to, then don’t go.”

Should she, or shouldn’t she? How much of her life would be revealed to not belong to her? What did healing even mean, put like that? Her mind shied away from the heavier question and popped another one onto the surface.

“Arthur,” she said slowly. “If I ask you something, will you promise to give me a truthful answer?”

“Of course,” he said.

“This, this pendant.” Uncertain what to even call it, she withdrew the little teapot pendant from under her cardigan. Arthur’s expression seemed to light up, seeing that she wore it. “You said it had a ‘weak healing charm’ on it.”

“All right, fair cop,” he chuckled, less shamefaced than smug. “I strengthened the charm a bit. Well, maybe more than a bit, I’m no good with healing charms so I might have overdone it. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not!” Petunia sniffed through a weak, crooked smile. “Thank you. You might have told me about it, but thank you anyway. I think it’s working.”

“But that’s wonderful!”

“Is it? It’s changing me. I might become a completely different person.” She looked into his honest eyes whose gaze was filled with... compassion? No, some sharper emotion.

“You’ll find out just how fantastic you already are,” he said. His lips twitched in a quick, shy smile. “Some other people can already see it.”

“You flatterer.” Petunia smiled more widely now, becoming lost in Arthur’s eyes.

The telephone rang and the moment was broken. Petunia hurried to answer and then had to spend several minutes fending off nosy Mrs Figg who was determined to pop by for a “casual” visit. When she returned to the kitchen it was to find Arthur examining the toaster. She could not help bursting into laughter at his keen expression. Fortunately Arthur did not seem to mind.

“What is this for?” he asked.

“It’s a toaster. Don’t you remember? You should. You’ve had enough toast made on one of those.”

“Oh, of course. A toaster. I thought it looked familiar. Does the colour make a difference to how the bread turns out?” Arthur took out his wand and made a pass or two over the appliance, which responded by rattling slightly.

“No, it doesn’t. Don’t break it.” Reminded of the ostensible purpose of Arthur’s visit, she said: “Should we go look at the trunk now?” 

“Of course. The attic, you said?” With a final long look at the toaster, Arthur followed her to the attic. The winter sun failing to give any illumination Petunia switched on the ceiling light, which made the cluttered room cosy and snug. She pushed a coat rack out of the way to reveal the trunk, only lightly concealed because she was the only one who ever came up here.

“A Hogwarts trunk!” Arthur exclaimed. “That is, almost everyone has one more or less like it at school.” He took out his wand and waved it at the lock, which promptly made a popping sound. Petunia’s breath caught. Had it really been that easy?

“Don’t you want to open it?” Arthur asked as she continued to stand frozen to the spot. She shook herself awake and lifted the lid.

The jumble of items inside made more sense to her adult self than it had at five years of age. The dress she remembered turned out to be school robes; there was even a pointy black hat to go with them. There were two books, one an owl-care manual and the other a sort of herbarium which had leaked flattened specimens all over. A bat of some kind, not a cricket bat but not entirely dissimilar, lay across the bottom, and she could see it had been signed by a team. Stray socks, a cat litter tray, scales, a telescope… a selection of debris of school life. Petunia reached inside with a hesitant hand, then both hands, until she was feeling around the corners for what she knew had to be in there—and found it.

The wand was, as she had remembered, dark, nearly black, either with age or the nature of the wood. It narrowed towards the tip which was almost sharp. The handle was carved with curlicued vines and ended in a knot that formed the centre of a flower at the end.

As an object, it was beautiful, but as soon as she picked it up, Petunia had to resist the urge to throw it away from her as hard as she could. The wand trembled as she handed it to Arthur, who had been examining an old hoover while she dug into the trunk. 

“Definitely a wand. Looks old,” Arthur commented, sighting along the length of it as though evaluating a gun. Then he gave it a little twirl, and much to Petunia’s further startlement the wand shot out a small shower of green sparks. “Seems to be okay, though,” Arthur said and gave it back, much less intrigued by an antique magic wand than he had been by the hoover. 

“So. My great-great-grandmother at least was… was a…” Petunia could hardly bring herself to say it. “But not Gramma.” As if that made a difference now. She shut the lid of the trunk and sat on it, still holding the wand.

“What should I do with it?” she asked. “Seems a pity to have it lying around here. I can’t really give it to Harry, either.”

“He’s already got one,” said Arthur. “A very special one. Oh, speaking of Harry, I have something here for you!” He reached somewhere inside his robes and produced a newspaper, one of the wizard ones where the pictures moved. She inhaled sharply when she recognised the boy on the front page.

“Harry’s made it through two of the three tasks of the Triwizard Tournament, completely unscathed!” Arthur announced happily. “Mostly unscathed,” he then amended.

“The what? What’s he up to now?” Uncertainty and surprise made Petunia’s voice sharper than she intended.

“You don’t know? He didn’t even write to you about that? Oh, these teenage boys!” Arthur rolled his eyes and proceeded to tell her about a very dangerous tournament taking place at Hogwarts into which Harry had somehow managed to inveigle himself and where, contrary to all expectations, managed not to get himself maimed or killed. “He’s tied for first place, too!” Arthur beamed. “You can keep the paper, I’ve got loads more copies at home.”

On the cover of the newspaper, under the text Daily Prophet, Harry looked around with the beginnings of a grin on his face as he was borne aloft by a group of boys and girls his age, all wearing a more modern version of the school robes in the trunk, quite similar to the ones that were only too familiar from Lily’s holidays from Hogwarts. Right at the forefront of the picture were four boys who needed no introductions. Petunia smiled.

“Are these all yours?” she asked, pointing.

“Yes. That one’s Percy. Ronald, Fred and George you met,” Arthur supplied, indicating each in turn. “Or George and Fred, no idea which is which. I generally don’t. Ginevra’s over there,” he pointed to the other side of Harry where a girl vaguely resembling Arthur walked along, her eyes on Harry and a worshipful look on her face.

“You must be so proud of them,” Petunia said. 

“I am, I am! My boys and Ginny are solid gold. The best bunch of lads, and gal, anyone could wish for!” Arthur grinned and nudged her. “But what about Harry, eh? Talk about being proud!”

“He’s not mine.” Petunia threw the paper and the wand on top of a dresser and stalked down the attic stairs, leaving him behind. Of course it was Harry who was the centre of attention. Petunia grudgingly admitted that Harry could hardly help it in this instance, but it still galled that all Harry had to do to be admired and appreciated was to exist, while Dudley, a normal healthy boy developing into a healthier man, went unnoticed and unrewarded by the world. Her old jealousy of Lily lifted its ugly head again. Lily had been the same, she had had everything without even asking for it… just by being so magical.

“Pet?” Arthur clambered down after her. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Why do you admire him so much?” Petunia spat. “I’m sick and tired of Harry this and Harry that! Is that why you’re here?” She spun around to face him. “Is it? You’re just hanging around me to catch a glimpse of him!”

Anger flickered through Arthur’s face but was gone almost as soon as it appeared, replaced by, of all things, tenderness.

“Pet, you’re not making any sense,” he said. He reached out to grasp her shoulders but she twisted out of the way furiously. “You invited me here today. I’m here because I want to help you.” He stepped closer. This time Petunia remained still and allowed him to touch her shoulder. “And because I want to be here with you.”

Petunia’s anger still boiled, but suddenly it was battling another emotion. She wanted so much to believe him, but how could she? He had not written; clearly he did not want her in his life. It had been such a relief to think that he was only using her to bind Harry to him; to think that way was familiar, comforting even with all the pain it meant, an anchor in the life she knew. 

Yet his eyes, his touch spoke differently, and his voice was like a beacon on a foreign shore, lit against the storm. What could she think? What could she believe?

“You were wondering what’s you and what’s not,” said Arthur. “That just now—that’s not you.”

“Why didn’t you write?” The words that she had sworn to herself she would not utter suddenly sprang from her mouth without seeming to pass through her brain at any point, and as soon as she heard them she wanted nothing so badly as to recall and unsay them.

Arthur opened and closed his mouth a few times before he found words. “I wanted to,” he said hesitantly. “But I… You said no promises, and I thought that for you it was just… Well, you didn’t write, either,” he finished lamely.

Petunia stood still for a long moment, taking stock of all the things she was feeling and not feeling. For years and years she had become accustomed to not feeling anything much at all, apart from the occasional stab of annoyance or impatience, or pride in how well Dudley was turning out, and now that she found herself in the centre of an absolute storm of emotions she froze.

Arthur still wanted to be with her. Leaving entirely aside how she felt about it, because she really could not tell, was that a fact she could now dare put weight on? Regardless of Harry… She blinked. What had that been about? How could she have thought, only moments ago, that that was Arthur’s motive? Laughable. 

Was this how she seemed from the outside?

Was it who she really was?

“I wrote a million letters,” she choked out. “In my mind. But I didn’t want to disturb you with them.”

He took a step and gently enfolded her in his arms. Petunia felt his robes close around her tightly and she snuggled closer and wrapped her arms around his waist, wanting to stay there forever.

“I’m frightened,” she mumbled. The very thing she had feared was coming true—she was changing, and she had no control over who she was becoming.

“It’ll be all right, Pet,” Arthur whispered. Petunia could feel the movement of his lips, his warm breath in her hair, and like always the sensation ran like an electric charge down her spine. She gave a longing sigh. Arthur kissed the top of her head and his hand caressed her hair, supposedly comforting but his body giving the lie to this intent.

She lifted her head to look at him, to decide whether to pull away, and suddenly they were kissing, a long, tender kiss that drove away her uncertainties and chased out of sight all thoughts of any magic but him. 

He kissed her jawline lightly, then under her ear, then moved down her neck in little nibbles. Every single kiss made her entire body ring with pleasure, and her breath came quicker. When she lifted her chin, Arthur kissed her collarbone, then her chin, and then he pressed his lips on hers again, hungrily now. Petunia’s hands found and opened the buttons of his robes and slipped inside, caressing the hot bare skin underneath. His hands weren’t so deft on the buttons of her cardigan, but Petunia hardly noticed them pattering onto the floor like sunflower seeds as he touched her waist, her back, her breasts.

“In here,” she breathed, stepping back and pulling him with her into the spare bedroom. Their kisses deepened, robes and skirts were divested. The room was unheated but that quickly ceased to matter. 

There was a bang from downstairs that Petunia only vaguely registered. What got through to her just fine, however, was Vernon calling up the stairs: “Petunia? Are you home?”

Petunia and Arthur broke apart hurriedly. Fright and a surprising spike of guilt coursing through her, Petunia stared mutely at Arthur. Should she answer Vernon? Of course she should, he would hear noises as soon as one of them moved.

“I’m up here!” she yelled. “Headache!” To Arthur, she whispered: “Don’t move, the floor creaks.”

Vernon grunted. “Bring my better suit down. I got called to a meeting in London.”

“Just a second!”

Arthur reached for his wand and started to hastily levitate his scattered clothes to him. Petunia yanked her skirt and blouse back on and tossed her nearly buttonless cardigan into a corner out of sight. She was barely decent again when heavy steps could be heard on the stairs.

“What’s taking so long?” Vernon grumbled loudly. “I need to be off in a few minutes!” The steps paused on the landing for a second. “Are you in the attic?” He had spotted the open door.

“No, I’m in here!” Petunia slipped out the door, being sure to close it behind her. 

“You said you had a headache.” Vernon eyed her suspiciously.

“I was resting.”

“In the attic?”

“Of course not. I was cleaning the attic and the dust made my head ache,” she invented wildly. “Did you want the black suit or the blue one?”

“Blue.”

With a sinking feeling, Petunia realised that Vernon’s suits hung in the spare bedroom closet to keep them neat and unrumpled. “I’ll get it, you go downstairs,” she chirped. 

“No, I’ll get it, I’ll get it.” Vernon had now reached the top of the stairs. “Go put out the attic light, you’re wasting electricity.”

“It’s in the spare bedroom!” Petunia said loudly for Arthur to hear and be warned, but what could he do? The window was too far above ground to slip out of; maybe he could at least hide. 

“I know it’s in the spare bedroom!” Vernon cast her another suspicious and annoyed look. “What the devil, woman, you think I don’t know where my clothes are?”

Vernon put a hand on the doorknob and started to turn it, when a clearly audible pop sounded from inside the room. They both jumped.

“What the devil was THAT?” Vernon demanded, turning on her, as if she had caused the sound solely to annoy him. Petunia shrugged elaborately, truly having no idea. More carefully, Vernon grabbed the doorknob and in a sudden gesture slammed the door fully open and stepped inside.

Petunia peered fearfully around the door. Nothing was amiss in the room which was completely empty of semi-robed wizards. She had a moment’s panic when Vernon pulled open the closet, but it was filled with nothing but suits. Surreptitiously she tried peering under the bed, but even that hiding place seemed empty. The window was closed. She could only assume that the loud noise had been Arthur doing that disappearing trick. Thank goodness.

“Huh.” Vernon looked around and then did what he always did with things he could not understand: pretended nothing had happened. He simply changed into his better suit, complained about his favourite shirt being in the wash, asked Petunia to help with his tie and went off with “I’ll be late, don’t wait up.” Petunia was so frustrated she could have slapped him. If only Arthur hadn’t left! 

When the house was empty again she climbed the attic stairs despondently. She was about to switch off the light when she spotted the wand and the newspaper still on the abandoned dresser.

The picture on the paper was still moving, as Petunia knew it would continue to do forever. Arthur’s five children still looked happy, as did Harry but Petunia glossed over that. Curious, she opened the paper to the second page, then the third. Such strange headlines, and yet oddly familiar. Italian wand-makers’ strike in its fourth week. Knockturn Alley roadworks annoy residents. Curses on the rise, charms sales up. Rising interest rates at Gringotts. Under Domestic News she found to her delight a small news item about the dangers of illegal portkeys (whatever they were) made from Muggle items, complete with a comment from and a picture of “Mr Arthur Weasley from the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office”. He looked remarkably more collected in the photo than he had looking for an escape route from the spare bedroom…

 

“Arthur? Is that you?”

Arthur whispered a string of swearwords but did not let it delay him in getting his robes back on. One sock was missing, dammit. He stripped off the other one as well just as Molly stepped into the living-rooom.

“What are you doing home at this hour?” she said, looking concerned. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

“Uhh…” 

“Well get on the sofa then, and I’ll bring you a cup of hot chocolate.” 

She bustled off into the kitchen. Arthur obediently stretched himself out on the sofa and sighed. A yellow button fell out of a fold of his robes and rolled onto the floor, and quickly he swept it under the sofa.

Regardless of how much he had missed Petunia, how badly he had wanted her to write and how overjoyed he had been when she finally did, he still had not meant for this to happen… again. Going to her today, he had sworn to himself he would not let it happen. But as soon as they touched, all these good resolutions had vanished. She felt so right, it was like coming home, finding the last missing piece of a puzzle, completing a difficult spell. 

And yet… Molly. He loved Molly. All right, maybe he was rather less blind to her idiosyncrasies than when they had been hurriedly married, racing against time and her growing belly, and maybe the made for each other line had worn a bit thin when she had left him for almost a year when Bill and Charlie were small, but they had still had a good life together, and they had made lovely children. So many lovely children. They had both made compromises, they had both gained by them, and now was too late to be having second thoughts. Surely.

Surreptitiously, he reached under the sofa, picked up the button and slipped it in his pocket.


	3. Various lessons (3 of 5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magical lessons, and more.

 

_Dear Petunia,_

_I hope everything is all right. I felt like a coward deserting you that way, but I didn’t think it would serve any purpose to stay. Under the circumstances, I mean._

_We became a little side-tracked from the issue of what you’re going to do now, and whether you want to go back to Parsiflage. Can we meet to talk again? Already this week, perhaps?_

_Arthur_

 

_Dear Arthur,_

_Of course we can meet, but please don’t talk about Parsiflage. I can’t do that, not yet anyway. Would noon on Thursday be all right? I’ll make you lunch. Would it be too much trouble for you to use the garden door? Mrs Figg from around the corner in Wisteria Walk would have less to gossip about._

_You might also want your sock back. I didn’t feel like enclosing it in this letter._

_Yours,_

_Petunia_

 

* * *

 

“If not Parsiflage, then what about Dumbledore? Tell him everything. Or I could talk to him first if you like,” Arthur said and shovelled another mouthful of shepherd’s pie into his mouth. Petunia grimaced.

“And then what?” she asked stiffly. “Exactly what are you thinking would happen? I have a life! I can’t go gallivanting off to… and what would I tell Vernon?”

Arthur looked unhappy and took his time chewing and swallowing before replying: “Do you really want to just go on as before? Knowing what you know?”

Petunia stared at her plate, appetite suddenly replaced by a lump in the general region of her diaphragm. She swallowed tears.

“What other choice do I have?” she asked, sitting stock still, trying to sound reasonable. “Vernon would throw me out, and I can’t leave Dudley.”

For a long moment they avoided each other’s eyes. Petunia got up, scraped off the remainder of her food into the bin, rinsed her plate, put it in the dishwasher, rinsed out her glass and put that in the dishwasher as well, and then put the kettle on. She had a strange sense of disconnection, seeing Arthur at her own kitchen table, eating food she had cooked. Not an unpleasant sensation by any means, just unfamiliar.

“Maybe it would have been better,” she said quietly, “if I’d never found out. Then I could…” She trailed off, not knowing how to finish that sentence.

“Many people, maybe most, would say that the only thing that counts is whether you want to learn or not,” Arthur said. He pushed back his chair, and Petunia took his empty plate and put it beside hers in the dishwasher.

“Thank goodness you have more sense than that,” she smiled. He always had.

“What about a tutor?” Arthur asked. “Just to learn some basic safety things, simple spells and such. It’s not a question of all or nothing.”

He had a point. Perhaps learning simple safety precautions would help reassure her that she would not make Vernon explode by accident.

“Are you volunteering?” Petunia glanced up at him from under her brows, still smiling. He looked taken aback.

“Me? I’m…” He grimaced and shook his head. “I’m not a good teacher. But there are people who can help…”

Petunia calmly set two teacups on the table. “Don’t talk nonsense. I don’t want ‘people’, and besides, what happened to the man who wanted to teach at Hogwarts? Hmm?” She poured the tea and sat back down opposite him.

“Muggle Studies!” he protested with a laugh. “Not magic!”

“Still, it’s teaching,” Petunia pointed out. “But honestly, Arthur, I couldn’t let just anyone see me waving a wand around, looking stupid.”

“There is no way in which you can look stupid,” Arthur asserted firmly.

“I’m serious!”

“So am I.”

Petunia rolled her eyes. “Arthur Weasley, I’m _not_ asking anyone else to teach me anything, so there.”

They were both silent for a while, sipping tea. The tick of the clock was oddly loud in the quiet kitchen. An ambulance wailed past, safely far away. Outside it started to rain.

“I wouldn’t be able to come very often,” Arthur finally said. “I have to work… and…”

“I know,” she interrupted him, not wanting to hear it, not wanting Molly’s name spoken in her house.

There was another pause. Then Arthur glanced at her sideways with a wry smile.

“I honestly don’t know if I’m making up excuses not to do it, or excuses to do it,” he said. Petunia giggled a little at this strange conundrum. “Let’s try. But—” he interrupted before she could speak, “—if it’s a disaster, promise that you won’t just let it go, but find another teacher.”

“All right, I promise,” Petunia said after a moment’s pause. Now she would simply have to make sure that no disaster ensued.

“Great!” Arthur beamed and rubbed his hands together. “Where do you keep your wand?”

“Up in the attic. No one else ever goes up there.” They both got up and, like two enthusiastic children, they climbed the stairs to the dusty attic where Gramma’s possessions cluttered the floor and walls.

Petunia unlocked the new lock on the old chest with the key she carried around her neck together with the teapot charm and lifted out the wand. When she straightened, Arthur was examining an ancient cassette player with great interest. He turned with alacrity when she poked him in the shoulder.

“Right, yes, sorry. Ah… what should we start with?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Petunia said but then took pity on him. “You said safety tips. Maybe that would be a good place to begin?”

“Good idea. So.” He drew his own wand from his sleeve and considered it for a moment, frowning with concentration as he probably thought back to his own childhood and his own first lessons. “Never hold the wand by the tip. It’ll work, but it does very strange things to spells. Don’t put your wand halfway in a pocket so that you can accidentally touch it and think a spell. Okay, that’s maybe when you’ve progressed a bit… Don’t use a wand for anything but magic, because again, it’ll have strange consequences. Especially nothing that involves food or drink, unless it’s a cooking spell or you’re making a potion.”

“Cooking spell?” She had never dreamed there would be spells for cooking. Floating things through the air, yes, explosions, yes, making things vanish or change into other things, yes, but actual cooking spells?

“Yes, but you won’t learn any from me. Or potions, I was always hopeless at those.”

“Fancy that,” Petunia said, hiding a smile. When staying with her family in Cokeworth, Arthur had once tried to make an omelette, starting out the ordinary, Muggle way, resorting to magic when he judged it would not work otherwise, and ending up with a perfectly inedible mound of rock-hard pieces of egg.

“I know what we’ll kick off with,” he said. “Lumos, the first ever spell I was taught. These days they start with something else, but I sort of like Lumos, it’s very practical. So, hold your wand with the tip high, like this.” He demonstrated. Petunia imitated him, and almost reeled under the incredible blow of mixed feelings that the simple gesture awakened—fear, doubt, exhilaration, embarrassment, a dash of vindication. She swallowed. Mostly it was fear.

“Give the tip a tiny upwards flick and say: Lumos.” A little ball of pearlescent light shone forth from his wand tip, illuminating his eager smile. “Try it.”

Petunia stared at her wand and drew a long, slow breath. It won’t work, she thought. Why did I even think that that Parsiflage fellow was right? This will never work, and then what? I’ll just crawl back into my hole and hide. I’ll never live it down, not as long as I live.

“Lumos…” she croaked, and waved the wand. Nothing happened. Petunia’s heart fell.

“It doesn’t have to work the first time. It usually doesn’t,” Arthur said. “That means nothing. You just keep trying until it does. Lots of people have a hard time with their first spell using a wand, especially, well. Muggle-born. Because they haven’t always been surrounded by magic, I think. Just go ahead, don’t think about it too much. You can always try again.”

Quickly, before she could change her mind about the whole thing, Petunia cleared her throat, flicked up the wand again and said: “Lumos.”

The tip bloomed with a piercing light like the beam of a lighthouse beacon. With a shriek of terror she threw the wand away from her and jumped back, colliding with Arthur, and the light went out.

”Look at that! Look what you did!” Arthur chortled, the very picture of delight. “That was amazing!”

“It was bloody terrifying!” she yelled back, angry now.

Arthur’s face fell but he did not scold her or take offence, just quietly took her in his arms. She resisted for perhaps a second before melting against him. “Sssh, it’s all right. That’s the curse,” he murmured. “Everything’s fine.”

“I can’t do this.” Her voice was muffled against his soft robes, almost drowned out by the thumping of her frenzied heart.

“Yes, you can. You did. Now you just have to do it again.” He let go and went to retrieve the wand that had bounced off a chair leg and clattered underneath a wardrobe.

Petunia knew in her bones that he was quite right, that if she were to ever learn anything, she would have to start again right now, before she got any more frightened. But that horror—that pure and simple terror that she had felt when the spell took hold... how could he ever understand that? It was not even fear _of_ anything, not of punishment or humiliation, just undiluted, absolute fear. Perhaps that was how curses worked.

Trembling, she took the wand from Arthur and lifted the tip again, and then stood for a long time staring at its wobbling tip, unable to say the word.

“Hold my hand,” she finally whispered and reached out to Arthur. He did, enclosing her hand in both of his, and she let the calm from his touch spread out and into her body.

“Lumos,” she whispered.

Nothing happened.

“Now it’s gone,” she said.

“No, no, you just frightened yourself. Try again.”

She tried a second time, and a third. By the fifth fruitless attempt she was almost in tears.

“It’s all right, keep going,” Arthur said bracingly. “But don’t let your gestures get larger. That’s what you always want to do when a spell doesn’t work, but if you let it happen, it’ll never work.”

Her next attempt produced a tiny wink of light on the tip of the wand and sparked barely a flicker of that terror, which she did her best to ignore. She turned to Arthur with a tremulous smile, and quite unexpectedly he drew her to him and kissed her.

It was some time before they came up for air, arms still around each other.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, not really looking repentant. “I didn’t... I wasn’t...”

“Me neither,” she whispered and kissed him again, and any nebulous thoughts beginning with _But_ or _We shouldn’t_ vanished into thin air in their rediscovery of one another.

 

* * *

 

By June, the last of Petunia’s nervousness about magic had vanished and, finding herself practicing almost every minute that she had to herself, she had mastered a few simple spells like Incendio and Spongify. She had learned to identify the rush of magic when it coursed through her into the wand and out into the world, and rather thought she might eventually be able to control it, rather than her current magic equivalent of closing her eyes and making a wish.

Arthur came to the house every two weeks or so, sometimes for only an hour or two, sometimes spending the whole day… and on those days, things other than magic practice tended to happen. Periodically, Petunia worried about not feeling the remorse and shame she thought she probably should feel about being intimate with anyone but Vernon but definitely did not. She never discussed it with Arthur. He never mentioned anything similar, either. In fact, they were careful to tiptoe around topics like feelings or choices or the future, and continued to pretend that they only met for lessons.

But in mid-June, a letter came from Arthur that was definitely not a lesson plan.

_Dear Pet,_

_I’m completely at loose ends from June 24 th to the evening of the 25th—I have two days of holiday due and no commitments. Any chance of, say, you coming to London on those days?_

_Yours,_

_Arthur_

Petunia’s toes tingled and she swallowed through a suddenly dry throat. The last weekend before the school holidays was the date of Vernon’s company’s annual picnic party on the beach in Brighton, and she would definitely be expected to attend. And not only attend, but also to provide a hamper of epic proportions that would be her entry in the unofficial but bloody contest of Who Packed The Nicest Lunch between company wives. Two years ago her hamper with seven different kinds of cold cuts with homemade green tomato and apple chutney and limited-edition beer had been met with approbation. Last year her theme had been oceanic, with fish and prawns and various other seafood laid out on a bed of crushed ice and accompanied by a sophisticated white wine, which had not pleased Vernon but impressed all the other wives, especially after no one got sick because she had been careful to keep the food chilled. For this year, she had planned and already begun to prepare a warm picnic with a Hawaiian theme, glazed pork in pineapple and various grilled fruit served with Waikiki champagne punch.

Asking Arthur if any change in dates was possible would be useless—he would hardly have been so specific if this was not a fixed event. But neither could she beg off from the picnic… not unless she fell ill. Which she perfectly well might. Vernon would grumble, but if she was seriously unwell, what could he do except let her stay at home?

The kitchen door slammed open and Petunia, halfway down the hall stairs as she returned from the attic and still absently holding the letter, hastily hid the note in her pocket.

“I’m off,” Vernon announced, his whiskers quivering with anticipation. “Wish me luck! Today’s the day we’re finally clinching the deal with Drillaby!”

“Good luck, dear,” Petunia said and, concealing her reluctance, bent down to give her husband a little peck on the cheek. “Have a nice day at work.” By the time the door closed, Vernon was the furthest thing from her mind.

How had she and Lily cut school as children? Fever could be faked by holding the thermometer against a radiator or hot water bottle. Lily had once said that she had been told that eating soap would bring about an actual fever, but perhaps she would not go quite that far. Would Vernon notice something amiss if she used rouge to pink up her cheeks?

What about accommodation in London? And what about money? She would have to pay cash, Vernon checked the credit card bills every month. The dishwasher had just been fixed, but the washing machine could well develop a costly malfunction that she would have to get repaired…

In ten days, on the evening of June 23rd, all was in readiness. The food was all packed and set in the fridge, including the main course that waited to be grilled in the oven in the early morning, to be retrieved just before their long drive to Brighton (Petunia had never understood why the company insisted on picnicking by the sea, rather than make use of the perfectly nice grassy fields by the river only ten minutes’ drive away). Her and Vernon’s outfits, carefully assembled to convey casual stylishness, hung in the spare bedroom, and Vernon’s old school boater with its maroon and orange striped ribbon had been located and dusted. Petunia regarded the hamper with its plates in the shape of banana leaves, the blanket with a straw mat pattern and the live orchids waiting on the nightstand, and knew a fleeting moment of regret that she would not see all of this proudly laid out for all to see and admire.

“Vernon,” she called out downstairs, then had to call twice more from the stairs before Vernon grunted a questioning response. “I’m not feeling well.”

That brought him to the living-room doorway.

“What do you mean, not feeling well?”

“My head is aching and I think I have a fever.” She handed him the thermometer where the silvery pillar had halted just shy of 100 degrees, carefully prepared in advance of course. “But it’s probably nothing,” she added brightly. “I’ll take a pill and it’ll be all gone by morning. I’m sure the pink spots down my sides have nothing to do with it.”

Vernon started back and stared at her as though he could see a crop of repulsive pimples sprouting through her blouse.

“Is it contagious?” he asked and took a step back.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, Vernon,” she repeated. “I’m going up to bed now and try to sleep, I have to be up early for the roast.”

“It had best be nothing,” Vernon growled. “We can’t possibly miss the picnic!”

In the morning she got up early (Vernon having chosen to sleep in the spare bedroom made things much easier), put on rouge, matted her hair as though from disturbed sleep, and went downstairs to put the roast in the oven. Then she went back to bed to read and, as soon as she heard Vernon begin to stir, put her legs up high and dangled her head over the edge of the bed to produce an even more convincing flush on her face.

When she encountered Vernon in the upstairs hallway he gasped and leaped back at the sight.

“I’m feeling much better,” she said with a slight tremor in her voice. “Would you carry the hamper downstairs, please, so I can finish packing it?”

“Petunia!” Vernon choked. “You can’t go to the picnic! You’re quite clearly contagious!”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll be just fine, I have hardly any more of those spots.”

“I absolutely forbid you to have anything to do with the picnic! I don’t want whatever it is spreading to Mr and Mrs Jones, let alone Director McFadden. I’ll just have to go alone.”

“Alone!” she pretended to be shocked. “But what about all the food?”

“I’ll take it along, pass it round. In fact, I’ll pack it myself. They might catch that… that,” he gestured with an angry wave of his hand to indicate her midriff, “from the wrappings.”

He shooed her back into the bedroom, careful not to touch her with so much as the tip of a finger, and carried the hamper down. Petunia heard him banging the stove and cursing and she winced at the thought of what was being done to her lovely glazed pork in pineapple. In less than half an hour he was out of the house, still grumbling to himself as he climbed into the car, no doubt full of invective against lazy, inconsiderate wives who thought it their right to get sick before company picnics. Watching him from the bedroom window, Petunia felt the lift of exhilarating freedom.

A shower and change of clothes later Petunia, who had packed an overnight bag last night and hidden it under the bed, was ready to leave for London. The click of the closing latch of the front door sounded to her like a school bell signalling the end of term and the freedom of the holidays, and she almost skipped down the garden path on her way to the bus stop. Until, that was, she spotted Mrs Figg making her slow, painful way down the street.

“Hello, Mrs Dursley,” Mrs Figg said, beady-eyed with curiosity. “I saw your Vernon leave for your picnic earlier, and wondered why you weren’t with him.”

Trust Mrs Figg to have her nose pressed to the window all hours of the day.

“He went on ahead. I forgot to buy, um, apples, and he went to get them. I’m meeting him in Tesco with the rest of the food.” Petunia lifted her bag as though it contained jars of preserves or whatever.

“Your Vernon? At Tesco?” Mrs Figg’s eyes widened and she cackled. “Well, it sounds like he’s improving!”

Petunia resisted the urge to snort, just smiled and walked on.

As the train pulled into Paddington, Petunia’s heart leaped at the sight of Arthur’s familiar head of red hair just behind the ticket barriers and she hurried to him with a wide smile. He wore a passable imitation of Muggle clothes that owed much to their shopping trip in the autumn, an ordinary brown suit and white shirt with just a slightly funny multicoloured tie, his jacket on his arm. On the taxi ride to the hotel, protected by some sort of silence spell, he explained that Molly was at Hogwarts and planned to visit some relatives on the same trip, and then showed her a batch of newspapers whose headlines left her gaping in astonishment. Harry was all over the front page of all of them like a celebrity, all the way down to the feature articles and romantic rumours posing as fact. The writer of all these pieces was always the same, and although Petunia had to admit that the Skeeter woman’s penetrating, insinuating style was powerful, she took note that no one else had picked up the baton.

“It means he’s being personally hounded,” she explained to Arthur. “Just by this one reporter. For whatever reason this Rita Skeeter has a prominent position in the _Prophet_ and this is what she’s using it for. She’s beginning to seem desperate, look—no other journalists are touching the story, and her professional reputation is ruined if the story doesn’t spread within a week. I can’t wait for the fallout.”

“That’s a good point,” Arthur mused. “I doubt Harry sees it that way. Or M…, uh, others.”

“Of course he doesn’t, he’s a boy of fifteen,” Petunia sniffed, ignoring Arthur’s fumbling. “But that Skeeter may try something desperate.”

“If Harry actually wins the Triwizard Tournament, her reputation’s safe,” Arthur said.

“Surely you don’t think he will? Aren’t all the others much older?”

“I don’t know what to think. I just hope he doesn’t die of it,” Arthur sighed and glanced at his watch. “The third task starts at sundown.”

“I’m… I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Petunia stammered. Suddenly it was colder in the taxi. What if Harry were actually killed? Vernon would be overjoyed, she was sure, but what about her? He was, for all his shortcomings and the trouble he brought, Lily’s son.

“Of course he’ll be fine,” Arthur said, trying to convince himself, too, no doubt, and put his hand round her shoulders to cuddle her close. “Of course he will.”

They had a big lunch at the pub across the road from the hotel, awkward at first as they could not, for the first time, even begin to pretend that they were meeting simply to chat about magic. Petunia did not want to think about what all this meant and was perfectly fine with Arthur not wanting to discuss the matter, either. They exchanged chitchat about their respective children, even about Harry, and talked, in general terms, about Arthur’s work and her uneventful life. Arthur still seemed sincerely interested in how appliances like washing machines got fixed.

“The repairmen come to the house,” she explained, “and fix whatever’s broken…”

“With screwdrivers, I expect?”

Petunia tried and failed to recall what tools the repairmen had used on the dishwasher a few months ago. After all, she had not stayed to watch. She shifted her position and when her ankle unexpectedly brushed against Arthur’s trousered leg, her thoughts became hopelessly jumbled.

“Among other things, I suppose,” she said, trying to remain collected. His leg did not move. Neither did hers. From the point where they met a slow heat spread through her body and made her hands tremble a little. Arthur cleared his throat but said nothing.

Petunia forked up one final mouthful of her salad and sipped at her glass of wine. Arthur continued with his larger serving of steak and kidney pie in silence.

“When do you have to be back?” she finally asked, and at the same time she deliberately ran her bare ankle along Arthur’s leg.

He cleared his throat again.

“Not before tomorrow evening,” he said. “I actually have about a week’s worth of overtime saved up, but I could only get away for two days. Nice to know that the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office is such a crucial part of the Ministry’s functions.” His lips twitched in an ironic smile.

Suddenly all the awkwardness vanished. Petunia slipped her foot out of her high-heeled shoe and, protected by the gloom of the corner table and the angle of the bar, ran her bare toes up Arthur’s leg. He drew a long breath and looked at her with naked desire in his blue eyes.

“What about you? When are you due back?” he asked, voice a little husky.

“Tomorrow afternoon.” Perhaps, to be safe, she should aim to be back by noon, but they had never in Petunia’s experience been back from those picnics before early evening, what with Vernon too hung over to even sit in the car. Her toes rounded Arthur’s knee, effortlessly reaching the spot where his inner thigh began, and was rewarded by that gasp and slow blink of his she knew so well that meant she had succeeded in giving him pleasure. He put down his knife and caught her roving foot in his hand, caressing her toes and ankle and leg in a single gentle motion that made her loins ache with need.

“Should we go?” he whispered. She smiled in response and they scrambled out of their booth.

It had rained while they ate and now the brilliant June sun reflected in rainbows from the wet asphalt, bedecking the streets with shining water droplets like jewels. In the middle of the street crossing Arthur hesitantly took her hand and she squeezed it, so happy that her heart might burst.

 


	4. Waiting Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Such a long time, so many letters...  
> (Takes place during The Order of the Phoenix and The Half-Blood Prince.)

 At exactly five to three, Petunia opened the attic door. The August heat made the space unbearably muggy and the sunshine highlighted every speck of dust floating in the humid air. After shutting the bolt on the door Petunia clambered over and around discarded furniture and junk to the window to open it in the hopes of airing out the worst of it. Then she pushed aside a deceptively large but conveniently light wardrobe, revealing a small fireplace that had been connected to the floo network, thanks to Arthur’s Ministry connections, some time after their lessons had become regular.

She took out the wand from its customary hiding place in the trunk and sat down on the old sofa with a broken armrest, fretting. Vernon and Dudley were safely out of the way at a football match, but Harry had made it a disconcerting habit to loiter around the house, stealing The Telegraph and watching the news on television. She knew she was taking a risk, but Arthur’s holidays were about to start, which meant that this would be her last opportunity to see him for weeks.

At exactly three o’clock the fireplace began to glow green. There was a whizzing noise and a green cloud of smoke, and then Arthur stepped out, bent double to clear the low mantelpiece.

“You look lovely,” were his first words. Petunia beamed a little and self-consciously smoothed the wide, short skirts of her chequered summer dress. “So. What do you want to work on today? You did Wingardium Leviosa perfectly last time we practiced...”

“What’s the spell for getting into Diagon Alley?” Petunia asked. She had realised that if she, heaven forbid, needed to get to the Alley in a hurry, she didn’t want to have to depend on someone else taking her through.

“Ah, that’s a good one! It’s a simple spell and useful for lots of things.” Arthur glanced around. “Do you have something here that locks… a cupboard, or a closet?” Petunia pointed at the wardrobe she had shifted earlier; the lock on it was hardly sturdy, but it did shut with a proper key, which Arthur now used to lock it.

“The spell of opening is Alohomora. Touch the lock with your wand and speak the word, like this.” He demonstrated, and the trunk opened with a click. He locked it again, and Petunia tried in turn. Predictably, nothing happened.

That was usually the case with new spells and she had learned not to mind. She tried until she had managed to unlock the trunk three times in a row. By that time it was past four, and they were both sweaty, thirsty and famished.

“I’ll get us some sandwiches,” she said with a smile. “Don’t go away.”

She lifted her hand to open the attic door, then on impulse touched her wand to the bolt and said “Alohomora”. The bolt slid aside obediently.

“Well done!” Arthur clapped his hands together. “We’ll make a witch of you yet!”

They made a picnic in front of the window with sandwiches and two icy bottles of soda and chatted about spells and air conditioning and potions and vaccinations, and Arthur’s oldest son Bill returning from Egypt and starting to court some French girl at the bank.

“It’s such a shame that you and Harry can’t get along, you know,” Arthur sighed in response to Petunia describing Harry’s sulky moods. “He’s a very nice boy, I know you’d like him if you just knew him.”

“Can we not talk about Harry?” Petunia said, her voice tightening. Could Arthur stop spoiling this moment?

“I think in fact we have to,” Arthur said apologetically. “The thing is… I can’t tell you much, but something has happened. Something big. And Harry’s right in the middle of it. It’s very important that you keep him safe now.”

“What do you mean?” Cold fingers seemed to run along her spine. “Why can’t you tell me?”

“Statute of secrecy… and Ministry business… and it’s safer for you if you don’t know.” He paused and looked, as far as Petunia could tell, thoroughly miserable. “That’s not all, though. I might not see you as often anymore. The situation’s complicated. I’ll try to come when I can, but I want to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” she yelped. Terror grabbed her. “Am I in danger? Is _Dudley_ in danger?”

“No, no. Well, probably not,” Arthur said, less than convincingly. “But I’ll write to you, that should still be all right.”

Arthur in danger, and she was… alone. Again. She told herself this was nothing like last time, he was not leaving her, and to the devil with the little voice that said she had never had him in the first place. She would not break down in tears, absolutely not. Resolutely she lifted her chin in spite of the heavy mantle of dread that draped over her shoulders.

“I’ll just have to read the _Daily Prophet_ for news again,” she said, voice barely quavering.

 

* * *

 

 

_Little Whinging  
August 15 th _

_Dear Arthur,_

_I’m so angry I can barely write. “Something big has happened” you said, and it didn’t occur to you to tell me that Voldemort is back? The Statute of Secrecy aside, didn’t you think I might want to know that the man who killed my sister is on the loose again? You should have told me first thing! Now I had to hear it from Harry, and you would not believe the conversation we had, with Vernon shouting and being quite ridiculous, and Harry sulking and acting like his teeth were being pulled out. I don’t know what he was acting like that for, he’s the one who let Dudley be attacked by Dementors! It still makes me cry to think of that. _

_Dudley’s not been himself at all since last night, but he was very, very lucky. I think he’ll recover—he’s not like those poor souls during the war, the ones Lily and I saw in Cokeworth. But I let slip that I know what Dementors are. Harry’s face was a sight._

_And did you know that that eternal ass Dumbledore sent me one of those shouting letters? The almighty gall of that man! Dictating who we can and cannot have in our own house! I admit that it gave me a good reason to stop Vernon driving Harry out the door, but even so, you can tell him from me if you see him that it was completely inappropriate!_

_I hope it’s still safe to send this to you at the Ministry, we forgot to discuss that. Please write back soon._

_Yours,_

_Petunia_

_P.S. As you may have noticed, I’m not quite so angry anymore, not with you._

_London  
August 16 th_

_Pet,_

_I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. Now that you say it, it’s obvious that I should have done so a month ago when I first found out. You had every right to know, and if you had, maybe you could have kept both boys a little out of harm’s way. I wish that I could tell you everything, it would make so much sense for you. But it’s not my decision to make, and I can’t really ask anyone if I could without, well, you know what I mean._

_It’s still safe to send letters to the Ministry. I’ll tell you if things change on that front. I might be able to get away in about a month or so, if Bill doesn’t need help with his new flat._

_Harry will be moved the day after tomorrow, and you, Dudley and Vernon are to be “got out of the house” under some pretext, says Sirius. Don’t worry about Harry, I’ll meet him here where he’ll be safe, and you’ll be safer without him in your house. I’ll be glad of that._

_I do miss you._

_Yours,_

_Arthur_

 

_Little Whinging  
October 18 th_

_Dear Arthur,_

_I can’t thank you enough for your birthday present. The Little Spellbook is exactly what I need! I’ve already managed one switching spell (the easiest one, spaghetti to worms) and I’m starting on the freezing charm. And of course every time I open it I think of you, and life seems a little more bearable._

_Are you able to get away before Christmas?_

_Yours,_

_Petunia_

_London  
October 25 th_

_Dear Pet,_

_I’m afraid there’s not much chance of us meeting before Christmas. Work is insane, and other things take up too much time. I wish we could. I’m going mad here. I don’t think I’ve a normal conversation with anyone since we last spoke, everyone’s so on edge. It doesn’t help that I can’t concentrate on anything when half the time I’m just missing you._

_Speaking of Christmas, would you mind very much if we invited Harry to join us at the Burrow? He’ll get a proper invitation, but I wanted to ask you beforehand in case you have anything planned. We’d love to have him stay._

_Yours,_

_Arthur_

_Little Whinging  
November 2 nd_

_Dear Arthur,_

_Of course Harry can stay with you. Frankly, I’m relieved—it’s one less source of stress over the holidays. That doesn’t sound very nice, but you don’t know what it’s like here when both boys are home: Vernon cursing and shouting, the boys bickering, my nerves so stretched with the arguing and the cooking and cleaning and decorating that I want to explode._

_I can’t stand the way Vernon treats Harry any more. I know I’ve not been nice to him, like I’ve told you, and it’s not that I’m so fond of Harry. (There. I’ve written it down. I’m a terrible person!) But Vernon treats him like nothing, like he has no place in our house, or in the world. It’s wearing me out, and worst of all—it’s contagious, and so I’m doing it, too._

_That’s why Harry has stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas, and at every other opportunity, since he started there._

_What must you think of me. I’m not much of a parent, I never was. Or aunt. You’re lucky to have a lovely family that loves each other._

_I almost started to write that I’d like to spend Christmas with you, too, and the world sort of thumped me on the head. What a silly thing to think!_

_Yours,_

_Petunia_

_London NW3  
December 9 th_

_No more letters to me at work._

_Will write more when I can. Try not to worry._

_A._

_London  
December 29 th _

_Dearest Pet,_

_I’m all right. Harry’s all right. Well, mostly. Nothing bad has happened. Not irretrievable, anyway._

_I’m so very sorry I haven’t been able to write. I’m composing this letter in bits, hiding it under my mattress in the meantime_ [indeed, the date had been crossed out twice; apparently Arthur had begun his letter on the 26th and continued on the 28th before finally managing to send it] _, and I’m frankly terrified that someone will find it before I get to an owl, but you deserve an explanation as much as I can give one._

_I wrote my last note in hospital. I had a run-in with something nasty and was in a rather bad way. I’m out of hospital now, but we’re all in London in the hiding-place where we’ve been all autumn for reasons I, again, can’t share with you no matter how much I want to. I’m packed in here with all of my family, Sirius, Hermione, Harry and a rotating selection of house-guests. It’s not a small house but there are so many people that I can’t seem to get three minutes to myself at a time. I’m going back to work after New Year—we’re going home then, too, if the wounds continue to heal as quickly—but until then I’m afraid we can’t correspond. Don’t reply to this letter!_

_I’ll write to you after New Year. I miss you. I want to see you again as soon as possible._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The pale winter daylight in the attic lit up the persistent dust that refused to budge no matter how hard Petunia hoovered and swept the floor, motes and clouds of it dancing before the windows, but for once she hardly noticed, just made a mental note to make sure spring cleaning got done properly. Soon the white light was briefly dyed green from the flare in the fireplace and Arthur stepped out, just managing to gingerly duck out from under the low mantelpiece before Petunia flew into his arms. For a long moment they just stood still, embracing each other, and Petunia luxuriated in the feel of him, the relief of being with him and touching him again. The last five months without him, without his touch, had gnawed a hole in her heart that she had feared could never be mended, but the ache vanished as she pressed her cheek against his pilled, worn pullover.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long,” he murmured into her hair.

“Don’t be silly.” She clasped his waist tighter but immediately let go as he gasped with pain. “Are you all right? What happened? Where does it hurt?”

“I’m better, I can’t tell you what happened, and it doesn’t hurt as much as it did,” Arthur said. “Really, I’m fine.”

“Why can’t you tell me?” Petunia asked when they had, after some more cuddles, descended into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She sat down opposite him and tried to keep the accusation from her voice when she added: “You’re mixed up in something dangerous that you wouldn’t need to be mixed up in, aren’t you.”

In the bright lights of the kitchen, Arthur seemed older and greyer, with new pain lines around his mouth and eyes. He favoured his left side, and on his right wrist Petunia noticed red, angry scars, four small ones as though from puncture wounds and a puckered line whose end disappeared up his sleeve.

“Well—yes. No.” He rubbed his face. “What I mean is, yes, it’s dangerous, but I do need to be mixed up in it. We don’t have enough people in the Ministry as is.”

“We? Who ‘we’?”

“Don’t ask. It makes no sense that I’m not allowed to tell you anything, but I just can’t. I…” His lips twitched. “I know how you’ll feel about this, but I do have to trust Dumbledore to know what he’s doing.”

Petunia sniffed and got up to get teacups and pour the tea. She dug into the medicine cupboard and popped some aspirin for Arthur, which he set in front of him with a glass of water. He examined them curiously.

“It’s a painkiller,” she explained, and his expression brightened instantly.

“Oh, Muggle medicine!” He turned a pill over on his palm and touched it with his tongue, then made a face at the taste.

“You’re supposed to swallow it with water, not lick it,” Petunia said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

He did so, with more grimacing, and took a swig of tea to wash down the bitterness.

“It’ll be interesting to see what it does,” he said. “Why is it taken as a dreadful-tasting pill, and not a potion to be drank?”

“I really have no idea, I’m not a pharmacist,” Petunia said. “Arthur, what’s happening in the wizarding world? Can you at least tell me that? The _Daily Prophet_ isn’t saying anything about… _him_ , and there’s nothing about Death Eaters or anything. If he is back, where is he? What’s going on?” Reading all the articles devoted to Harry and his mental instability had been at first entertaining, then disconcerting, and had now passed on into territory best labelled as ominous. Clearly the paper was reporting a less than complete version of reality, but she had no way of knowing what was true and what was not.

“He _is_ back,” Arthur said grimly, “but the Minister of Magic is closing his eyes firmly on that fact and continues to pretend that everything is all right. The _Daily Prophet_ follows the Ministry line.” He gave a frustrated sigh. “Hogwarts should be the single great beacon of resistance, but instead, the Ministry’s flunky is wreaking havoc with the school.”

“Umbridge?” Petunia had read about her in the Prophet. “She looks like a perfectly nice woman.”

“Don’t you believe it.” Arthur shuddered. “The things the children told us over the holidays…”

“All right, but why do _you_ have to be involved?” Petunia asked, but then revelation struck and her eyes widened. “It’s Molly, isn’t it! She wants to play at being an Auror and fight the dark wizards, wades into the thick of it and drags you along, and she doesn’t care if you get hurt!” She set her tea mug down with a bang and rose to pace the kitchen. “She can’t do that! Don’t let her endanger _your_ life!”

“That’s unfair.” The harshness in his voice took Petunia quite by surprise and she halted her pacing. “Fine, yes, she’s doing more than I am and taking more risks, but that doesn’t mean I’m being dragged along or that she doesn’t care. She happens to be good at this and I’m not.”

“Then leave her to it! Let her go get herself killed if she wants to.” She didn’t care if she was being unreasonable, unfair, pushy—if she could save his life by offering him choice truths and hard choices, she would.

Arthur took a long breath. Instead of replying directly he said: “I should have done more last time around. Instead of fighting you-know-who I sat out most of the horrible times and then the war, telling myself I had children and my duty was to them…”

“And now you have _fewer_ children, do you?” Petunia bit out.

“… and not realising that my duty should have been to help give them a future,” Arthur continued, voice rising slightly. “And that’s what I’m doing now. I don’t want them to have to live in the kind of world that you-know-who will make, and if you knew what it was like, you wouldn’t, either.”

They stared at each other, the moment between them stretching taut, neither wanting to be the first to speak. In the end, Petunia was the one to break the silence.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” she said through teeth clenched against threatening sobs.

Arthur, to his credit, offered no false reassurances, no uncertain promises, just rose and hugged her. Maybe he, like Petunia, was thinking of Lily and others irretrievably lost in the battles of the first war.

“At least I know you’re safe,” he finally said in a choked voice. “Or as safe as anyone can be. As safe as I can make you.”

The telephone rang. Petunia detached herself, cleared her throat and answered, turning away to wipe away a stray tear before Arthur could see it.

“Didn’t you put my wellies in the car last night?” were Vernon’s first, angry words. “How am I supposed to tour this drilling site in my better shoes?”

“Did you need your wellies?” Petunia dragged her mind away from war and lost loved ones and tried to remember if a discussion had taken place to the effect of Vernon looking for his rubber boots. It might well have done for all she knew, she had been distracted out of her mind last night, knowing Arthur was due in the morning. “I think they’re in the cupboard under the stairs…”

“What good is that? I’m in Wessex! I’m supposed to go out there in ten minutes, wading in the mud!”

Petunia stifled a sudden impulse to tell him to go drown in it.

“Surely the mine, or whatever…”

“Mine? What are you saying?” Vernon scoffed. “I’m at a construction site, not a mine! I told you!”

“Construction people, then, have boots you can borrow?”

“Makes me look unprepared. Bad for business. How can I seem sensible and trustworthy if I don’t even have my wellies?!”

“It’ll make you look stupid if you go out there in just your shoes,” Petunia pointed out, then nipped Vernon’s attempted protest in its bud with: “I have to take a cake out of the oven. See you tonight.”

She hung up, first avoiding Arthur’s gaze, but then looked straight at him and dared him to comment on the exchange.

“Your last letter… you said he’s not treating you well,” he said hesitantly.

“I said he wasn’t treating Harry well,” she muttered and turned away. She should know better by now than to dare Arthur to do anything she would rather he didn’t do.

Arthur said nothing.

“And that I’m not, either. I know I’m to blame as much as he, or more, Harry’s my family, not his. I shouldn’t let it happen, but it just _does_ ,” she burst out. “And I’m tired of it! I don’t know, maybe it would be better if Harry stayed at school, or moved out…”

“That’s not—Pet, I’m sorry, but that’s not an option,” Arthur said, wincing.

“What’s not an option?” she asked, voice sharpening.

“Harry has to stay with you. As long as he’s underage, he’s protected by his mother’s magic but only for as long as he has a home with blood kin. That’s why he has to come here for summer holidays. Why you have to keep giving him a home.” He sat down heavily and rubbed his forehead. “This is _exactly_ why I told Dumbledore we should tell you all this, instead of just…”

“Ordering me around,” she finished when he trailed off.

“Exactly.”

“You told Dumbledore that.”

“Yes.” Arthur smiled mildly. “He said I didn’t know you, and that if I did, I wouldn’t even suggest it.”

Petunia snorted.

“Pet, dear, Harry’s the reason I’m still alive,” Arthur said gently. “He alerted the… Argh. Uh… Well… I would have bled to death without him.”

Petunia’s stomach turned to stone. “Arthur Weasley, _what happened to you_?” she whispered, horrified.

“I’ll tell you when I can, I promise, but the fact is, I owe Harry my life, and Ginny’s from before. At least.”

Petunia opened and closed her mouth a few times, unable to formulate into sentences all the emotions that suddenly crowded her mind. If that was true, she herself owed Harry for these moments with Arthur, and all the moments that might come. The anger she still felt at Molly and her thoughtless meddling in dangerous matters was now joined by terror at the thought that she had almost lost Arthur, and most unexpected gratitude towards Harry.

“So you think that by telling me this, you’ll make it easier for Harry to stay here next summer.”

“Well, I can hope, can’t I?” he chuckled. “I know you understand.”

They exchanged crooked smiles. She certainly did understand, and she would have done the same thing in his place. She loved the way his courage and idealism were tempered by sound pragmatism, even when he was employing it this way.

“How long can you stay?” she asked. She had had enough of this talk of death and darkness and fear.

Arthur examined the kitchen clock. “Maybe an hour more,” he hazarded. “If you still want me here.”

In response, she rose and held out her hand for him with a smile.

 

* * *

 

The doors to King’s Cross Station would not open, no matter how long Petunia stood before them. She even took a few paces back and forth, but the doors refused to slide open at her approach like they should have done.

“The door’s over here!” Vernon hissed angrily. Petunia started and blinked in dismay at the glass wall she had been trying to enter. Vernon turned purple and glanced around. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself!”

“Sorry.” Petunia, flushing slightly, managed to walk inside without colliding with anyone or anything in spite of her thorough distraction.

“What’s wrong with you today?” growled Vernon, but his attention was caught by their son before Petunia had to answer. “Keep up, Dudley! Don’t look like you’ve never seen a railway station, there’s a good lad…”

Dudley had more or less recovered from the Dementor attack without losing his personality. True, he had become considerably more absent-minded but also, to Petunia’s secret relief, far less prone to fits of temper. He also tended to drift off sometimes into a world of his own, although not so much now as immediately after the attack. Every now and then Petunia indulged in the secret, shameful hope that he might not go all the way back to the way he used to be.

They navigated the throngs of commuters and tourists to the vicinity of Platforms 9 and 10 and there, half-obscured by the crowd, was Arthur. As soon as she spotted his red mop of hair, her heart began to flutter.

_“You’re coming to the station, aren’t you?”_ he had asked in his letter three days ago and, starved for even a glimpse of him after too many months of only exchanging letters, she had said yes. All day today she had been on tenterhooks, taking two hours to dress and an hour to put on her make-up—only Vernon’s utter self-absorption had saved her from certain discovery. And now, as they neared the platform and _him_ , her heart beat so loudly that she was certain Vernon could hear it, her legs shook, and she could not quite catch her breath.

Small groups of children of varying ages were appearing through the solid-seeming barrier between platforms nine and ten and walking up to greet waiting parents and families. Arthur stood in a large group of people, several wizards and a witch dressed in what they possibly thought were ordinary Muggle clothes, two actual Muggles—they were, predictably, the lively Arthur’s conversation partners—and Molly. Petunia stopped as though she had tried to pass onto the platform without a ticket and walked right into the barrier. This had been a mistake. A _big_ mistake.

“What is it now?” the impatient Vernon huffed, followed her gaze and, fortunately, misunderstood completely. “Huh. That rubbish lot. We’ll stand over here, well away from that trash, don’t worry. Come on, Dudley. I won’t let anything happen to you, never you mind _them_.”

Just then Arthur glanced her way over Molly’s head and froze for a heartbeat as their eyes locked. Then he turned his head away and, judging by his expression and vague hand waving, seemed to lose track of what he was saying. Why, oh why must he still be so dreadfully cute as to constantly draw her eyes? Petunia tore away her own gaze and with a fluttering heart and weak knees joined her husband and son next to one of the pillars that held up the station roof.

And there was Harry, walking off the platform with Arthur’s Ron and Ginny and another girl who she gathered was the Muggle-born Hermione Arthur had talked about. The entire group surged forward to meet the youngsters and talked together excitedly while Molly pulled Harry into a maternal hug. Petunia thought about what Arthur had said about Harry saving his life—it had been also for Molly, a fact that had somehow failed to register before now. A hot flash of pure jealousy struck through her.

“Why doesn’t he hurry up?” Vernon growled impatiently, and Petunia gave a silent sigh.

Suddenly the boy peered around the shoulder of the strangest-looking, limping wizard and spotted them standing and waiting. Before he could acknowledge them or Petunia him, Arthur detached himself from the Muggles and spoke to the limping one, with just the tiniest of sideways glances at Petunia that made her toes tingle. Then, to her enormous alarm, they all turned around and marched across the station floor right towards herself, Vernon and Dudley. The latter gave a small whimper and edged sideways until he had put his father’s considerable bulk between himself and the approaching throng. Petunia paled and had the sudden urge to do the same with the brick pillar next to her, but not a muscle in her body would budge. Furiously she queried the approaching Arthur with her eyes, but his face remained impassive. What was he up to? What did all of them want?

The group halted before them, Arthur facing Vernon. Petunia wanted to sink through the stone floor. Any second now she would collapse in a heap against the pillar. She would melt into a puddle from sheer panic. She would turn into a clucking bird and fly away…

“Good afternoon.” Arthur’s voice was light and almost friendly as he addressed Vernon. “You might remember me, my name’s Arthur Weasley.”

She had to look away, anywhere but at the two of them, before she burst into flame. She turned her head with enormous effort, gaze flitting all around the station hall, taking in the pigeons and the newsagents and the snack sellers and Molly directing an unfriendly, piercing look at her— _don’t think about her_ , she thought, _don’t think about what’s going on, just don’t think about anything at all… Oh look, they’ve redone the window frames on the side of the building…_

“We thought we’d just have a few words with you about Harry,” she heard Arthur say and her eyes snapped back to him of their own accord. She drew a sharp breath, just catching herself before she lashed out at him in indignation and told him off for not discussing this with her first.

“Yeah, about how he’s treated when he’s at your place.” The limping wizard, one of whose eyes was apparently a magical device of some sort, took a step closer to Vernon and loomed over him. Considering Vernon’s height, this was not difficult.

Vernon was by now red with indignation and as full of steam as a boiling teapot. He took a deep breath and tried to loom back at the strange-eyed wizard.

“I am not aware that it is any of our business what goes on in my house—”

Petunia missed the wizard’s reply and whatever the young witch with pink hair had to say, because just then Arthur’s and her eyes met. If her eyes conveyed her feelings at all, he must pick up on her panicked reproach. His eyebrows gave a tiny twitch upwards as he looked an apology at her. Petunia imagined there was also a promise, but that was a little too much to read into two or three seconds of agonized gazing. And it had gone on for too long and someone would notice. She closed her eyes and turned her head to make herself look away.

“And make no mistake, we’ll hear about it,” a tall, grizzled wizard was saying.

“Yes,” Arthur put in hurriedly to cover his pause, “even if you won’t let Harry use the fellytone—”

“ _Telephone_ ,” the Muggle-born Hermione mouthed in perfect synchrony with Petunia’s own whisper that was more in her head than her mouth.

“Yeah, if we get any hint that Potter’s been mistreated in any way,” the one-eyed wizard said, “you’ll have us to answer to.”

“Are you threatening me, sir?” Vernon exclaimed furiously, attempting again to loom, his muscles (what there was of them) taut, almost standing on his toes.

“Yes, I am.”

Petunia had to swallow a tiny hysterical laugh when she spotted the amused Harry smiling next to the limping one’s other elbow.

“And do I look like the kind of man who can be intimidated?” Vernon just would not let it go. What a dreadful example he was setting to Dudley, Petunia thought and sniffed.

The one-eyed wizard pushed back his incongruous bowler hat, and the horrified Vernon started back so violently that he rammed his shoulder into a luggage trolley, dislodging a few bags and sparking an indignant “OI!” from a porter. So he had not spotted the eye before.

“Yes, I’d have to say you do,” the wizard said and turned to pat Harry on the shoulder. “So, Potter, give us a shout if you need us. If we don’t hear from you for three days in a row, we’ll send someone along...”

A tiny squeak of a giggle escaped Petunia’s throat as she instantly found herself planning how to block Harry’s owls for three days in case it was Arthur who turned up.

Harry went through a brace of goodbyes, had another hug from Molly whose eyes Petunia now studiously avoided, promises to keep in touch—and, in the confusion, the briefest touch of hands, the tiniest grasp of intertwined fingers, and then Arthur was gone again. Petunia stared after him, too long, yes, but she could not help it, wanting to kiss his retreating back with her eyes. Then Dudley nudged her and she followed the rest of them out of the station, a jubilant Harry leading the way like he owned the world.

* * *

 

With an angry growl Petunia crumpled up the last of three or four attempted letters—to Arthur, to Dumbledore, to Harry, to any and all of the various players, whether in the flesh or by implication, in the drama that had unfolded some hours previously in her living-room. Everything she could bring herself to say was entirely insufficient to reflect her feelings—her letter-writing manners were simply too nice to convey her outrage and fury.

She could hardly believe that Dumbledore, the Great And Wonderful Wizard Headmaster that he probably thought himself, had seen fit to push his way into her home (although granted, part of the blame attached to Harry for not saying anything beforehand—and what about Arthur, who definitely should have warned her?), insult the entire family (for all that she mostly agreed with him, although she simply could not begin to comprehend what he had meant by that dig at Dudley), talk to Harry about the Order of the whatever, Phoenix, and Grim-something Place when Arthur had always taken such care never to…

Oh.

Her anger suddenly forgotten, Petunia put the discarded letters in the bin and considered the event in a new light. Had Dumbledore actually taken Arthur’s sound advice at this late date? The Headmaster had, in the end, condescended to actually ask her, ask them, if they would take Harry for one more year, and had explained why, in stark contrast to dealing through letters in baby baskets and howlers in her kitchen. That the explanation was redundant was, much as it galled her to admit, not actually Dumbledore’s fault.

She took up a fresh sheet of paper.

 

_Little Whinging  
August 27 th_

_Dear Arthur,_

_Is Harry with you at the Burrow? Or somewhere else? He and Dumbledore both forgot to mention where he was being taken._

_Do you have any idea why Dumbledore was suddenly so forthcoming? And why he saw fit to discuss it all in front of us? He even summoned what I gather was a house-elf, an unpleasant and smelly creature who tracked filth all over my living-room carpet. Surely he could have taken that outside?! The only explanation I can think of is that it’s some sort of test of my loyalty, to see if the information leaks out._

_I hope you find the time to write to me, although with your new responsibilities taking so much time, I try not to be too optimistic._

_Yours,_

_Petunia_

The letter finished and sealed in an envelope Petunia rose to go, only to spot her abortive attempts in the wastebasket. Carefully she picked them all up and headed for the attic, where she pushed the concealing wardrobe away from the fireplace. She set the letters in the grate, pointed her wand at them and watched them burst into flame.

* * *

 

“Vernon, dear,” Petunia said, carefully setting down her fork next to her plate of steak, peas and mashed potatoes. Vernon grunted and continued to munch on his steak. “With Dudley at school,” she knew better than to mention Harry at this point, or, indeed, at any other point, “and only the two of us home, there’s not much to do around the house. Do you think I should go back to work?”

She and Arthur had hardly seen each other again over the past several months. After a brief rendezvous in mid-September she had had to be content with infrequent letters until he had delivered her birthday present—a bag of fragrant loose-leaf tea with, he swore, no magical properties whatsoever in spite of being purchased in Diagon Alley—in person in October. Life went on. She got up in the morning, got Vernon ready for the office, did the shopping, did the gardening, did the cleaning and the scrubbing and the dishes, cooked and made preserves… Recently, she had become increasingly restless and bored. The house was spanking clean already, she could only change and wash the curtains so many times in a single season, the garden shed had been tidied and organised to within an inch of its life until the spiders were probably planning to weave floral-patterned webs, and more and more she noticed herself wandering around trying to find something to do. Practising magic filled quite a few hours very nicely, but one could not always be waving a wand around. She had worked her way through most of the Little Spellbook and was dying to try out the chapter on potions, but lacked even the simplest of ingredients and implements.  

In early December she had finally decided to tackle the topic with Vernon. Knowing in advance exactly how he would react allowed her to now sit patiently through forty-five minutes of Vernon’s raging and lecturing about how _his_ wife had no need to work, that she was becoming a _feminist_ who had no use for a husband, how she was ungrateful and ungraceful, that no one would hire her anyway at her age and the typist work she had done twenty years ago no longer existed as everything was on computers, how she could not hope to even begin to comprehend how to use a computer, and that if she was at work, who would cook _his_ lunches and iron _his_ socks?

When he began to wind down she got up and put away the plates, got out the sherry and calmly, carefully, slowly explained that she would still have plenty of time to do all the housework and cooking and laundry that needed doing, that she certainly did not plan to work full time, only to fill the loose, idle hours in the day. Surely Vernon, as the household’s main, in fact only, provider and an important man at Grunnings, could find work for her at his company, typing up dictation tapes or responses to requests for quotes. By the time she got to this point, Vernon was comfortably drunk, mellowing out but not yet paralytic enough to forget what was being said. She poured it on just a bit more thickly, appealing to his _famous_ common sense, and then left him to stew overnight.

As a result, when Arthur finally Apparated for a visit just before Christmas, she was able to tell him that she had a real job of her own: entering orders and product descriptions into a computer in the spare bedroom in her own home, for Vernon to deliver back to the office on diskettes. Arthur was entirely beside himself with eagerness and wild with curiosity, and she had to show him what she did on the computer; he considered it nothing short of miraculous that the mere pressing of a key on a keyboard should make something happen on the little television next to it—“Electronically!” Diskettes, which were something of a mystery to Petunia, he took much more in stride.

“What about the war?” Petunia asked, when they lay basking together on the spare bedroom bed, naked and warm in the secure knowledge that any chance of discovery was ridiculously remote. “I can’t make out anything from the _Daily Prophet_ other than that it’s bad. Just how bad?”

Arthur grimaced and held her tighter. “It’s bad. The Ministry’s now monitoring the Floo Network and they’re checking letters—our household’s, for one. Not mail from inside the Ministry, though,” he hastened to add when Petunia gasped in alarm, then added slightly less reassuringly: “…at least I don’t think so.”

“Are your… are you all safe?”

“As safe as we can be, which is not very. And Percy is giving all of us grief…” he went on to describe his third son’s insensitive behaviour and how he supported the Ministry’s actions. In the face of Arthur’s disappointment and anger, Petunia judged it ill-advised to suggest that perhaps Percy was merely staying above reproach to be able to help later.

“I don’t suppose we’ll see any more of each other.” She ran her finger over his chest, absently drawing circular patterns and enjoying the feel of him while she still had the chance.

“I’m afraid not,” Arthur sighed into her hair. “In fact… it might be even less. If the Ministry starts searching my work mail or tracking Apparition, or both, then I don’t see how…”

Petunia’s chest hurt, as if a tree that had grown roots deep inside her heart was swaying in a rough wind and pulling at the muscle itself. She felt cold.

“Don’t risk yourself,” she whispered. “I don’t want you to do that.”

“Uh… no,” Arthur said. “But what I was thinking was that I can’t lead them to you. This house is already being watched by the Order—not all the time,” he added quickly when Petunia sat up and stared at him wide-eyed. “But we’re keeping an eye on you, just in case. Not me, though, I have my Very Important Work at the Ministry…” He smiled ruefully. “My point is that, although the Death Eaters can’t find this house while Harry’s protection is in place, the Ministry knows perfectly well who you are and where you are. I worry about you every day.”

“No need,” Petunia sighed and snuggled back into his arms. “The most frightening things to happen to me in months is one of Mrs Figg’s cats getting run over by a car and Mr Marsden having his house keys stolen, although those turned up later in his wife’s underwear drawer.”

Arthur laughed. “And may that never change.”

* * *

 

They had planned a visit just before Christmas, but in the end, Arthur had to cancel again, in a letter filled with copious explanations and apologies. Petunia had enough of an idea of how the war was going just by reading the _Daily Prophet_ that she was put out but not surprised. She certainly did not blame him. Death Eaters were terrorising the whole population of England, not just the wizarding world, and she was learning to connect the dots that, in television news and Muggle newspapers, might indicate Death Eater activity. Vernon was beginning to grumble about her mania for watching the news, but for once she ignored him entirely. After he left for work each morning Petunia spent an hour or two minutely combing over every news item in the _Prophet_ for familiar names. Once she found a mention of Michael and Janet Woods as having narrowly escaped a Death Eater attack, for which a young wizard by name of Shunpike had been apprehended, and almost swallowed her tongue from shock.

By the time they met again in mid-March, with rain pouring outside and thunder occasionally rolling ominously as they sat in the kitchen having tea, Petunia was beside herself with worry. It did not help to have Arthur relate how his youngest son Ron had been poisoned on his birthday in an attempt to get Dumbledore. Harry, who else, had saved the day. Petunia could hardly begrudge Harry for his success, but did wonder if the Weasleys might not have had an easier time of it if they stayed away from Harry entirely.

Now the Ministry was definitely checking owl traffic in and out of its offices, which meant that even their correspondence grew scarce. Petunia’s letters had to go to a post box that Arthur had rented while his letters had to be sent by unmarked owls from outside the Ministry. They no longer used anyone’s full name in their letters. Arthur set up an ingenious alarm system using a pair of coins, silver sickles, hers on a chain, that would grow hot if the owner of the other was in immediate danger.

“Exactly how are you planning to explain it away, if something really happens to me and you know about it before everyone else?” Petunia demanded. Arthur waved this aside with a mutter. “And what about me, what do I do if—when!—I find out _you’re_ in danger?” she pressed.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Arthur said forcefully. “In fact, you don’t have to actually wear it, or you’ll just worry for no good purpose. It’ll still work for me.”

But of course she wore it—how could she not? Most of the time the coin was warm against the skin of her chest, warmer than her own body heat would account for. She worried at first but over the spring she grew used to it, even to the occasional flashes of more intense heat that every now and then raised a round, red mark where the coin had rested, and between that and her careful reading of the _Prophet_ she treasured the knowledge that nothing very serious had happened to Arthur… yet.

The rotten weather of spring gave way to the simply awful weather of early summer. The clouds seemed never to entirely disappear, only ripened from heavier rain clouds to lighter grey ones and rotted back again. The garden was sodden, the roof was beginning to leak (Petunia mended it one night with a surreptitious Reparo and was giddy for days from managing such a complicated spell) and everyone’s spirits flagged. Petunia kept practising whichever spells in her Little Spellbook she felt safe attempting on her own, and filled the rest of her empty hours with paying work.

Until a letter arrived from Arthur, after a nearly two months’ gap, by Muggle post.

_I need your help_ , it said. _We need your help. You know that H is coming home to you for the last time in two weeks, and that afterwards, the circumstances we talked about last year and explained by D will apply._ This Petunia took to refer to all magical protection being removed from Harry and the house.

_D and the others have agreed to see that you’re protected. All of you, I mean, your whole family. We’ll arrange for a new house for you anywhere you choose and all other things will be taken care of, but you do need to leave L.W. The further you go, the better, and the less chance of you being detected._

_I’m so sorry about this. I know you love your home and you have good reason to be proud of it. I wouldn’t suggest this if_ [here an “I” had been smudged out] _we had any other way to keep you safe. V might not understand and even refuse to leave. When the time comes, please help us persuade him._

_I’ll call on you at the house on July 3 rd with a friend to explain all this to your family, just so you know and are not caught completely off guard._

When the message sank in, Petunia’s suddenly nerveless fingers almost dropped the letter. Move. Go away. She looked around in the hallway whose wallpapers she had selected and which Vernon, a much thinner, much more active Vernon, had put up, and at the bannisters she had wrapped with bunting every holiday season for over twenty years, and felt numb. She had climbed up and down these stairs time and again, to check on a sleeping baby, to take up clean laundry and bring back dirty linen, to clamber to bed tired and pad downstairs to make tea during the first hour of every morning she always reserved just for herself… It was like her life was ending, like all that made her herself suddenly had an expiry date. Her garden. Her kitchen. Her carefully selected, carefully laid out furniture, rugs, throw pillows, curtains… The house was a work of art, an extension of herself, and suddenly it already seemed alien. Her whole life would be broken on the last day of July, Harry’s cursed seventeenth birthday.

 


	5. The End of the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petunia and Arthur both do what needs to be done.  
> Harry's and Arthur's POV.

 

Harry heard the attic door swing shut just outside his own bedroom door and wondered for the hundredth time what Aunt Petunia was doing up there these days; during the three days he had been here he had heard a lot of pacing, in between long stretches of silence, with the occasional thump thrown in. Then again, it was nothing to him what she was doing, he would be gone, permanently, in only a few weeks.

The doorbell rang at exactly the same moment his aunt’s hard knuckles rapped on the door.

“They’re here,” she said tersely and opened the door, revealing a carefully constructed hairdo on top of some light green dress thing. Apparently she had decided this was an occasion worth dressing up for. “Are you coming or not?”

Harry shut his copy of _Quidditch Through The Ages_ —he had finally bought a replacement for the one confiscated by Snape—and rose from his desk. From downstairs came the sound of Uncle Vernon opening the door, no doubt with epic reluctance, and the slightly surprising sound of voices not shouting. Aunt Petunia hurried off to greet their visitors. Harry followed more slowly, not really looking forward to yet another confrontation between the so-called family he had known most of his life and the almost-family that actually welcomed him. At least this time he had remembered to warn the Dursleys in advance.

“Hello, Harry,” Mr Weasley beamed at him from the hallway downstairs. “Good to see you again. Ron and Ginny and everyone else send their best.”

“Uh... thanks,” Harry said, touched in spite of having spoken to them all only days ago. “How’s Bill?”

Mr Weasley was instantly serious. “Recovering. We had a bit of a setback yesterday, he’s at St Mungo’s now, but Molly says he managed to eat some soup this morning so we’re hoping it was temporary.”

Uncle Vernon and Kingsley Shacklebolt had gone through into the living-room but Aunt Petunia lingered at the door, ears fairly flapping in her eagerness to pick up stray bits of gossip. She looked like she was dying to ask who Bill was and what exactly had happened to him, but thought better of it, just gestured at them to enter. Remembering the scene at King’s Cross almost two years ago, Harry thought she looked remarkably less like a stuffed giraffe in the presence of wizards this time.

“So, what do you lot want this time?” Uncle Vernon growled as soon as everyone was seated—everyone but Uncle Vernon, who seemed to have decided to dominate the conversation physically by remaining on his feet.

“How much has your nephew told you about why we’ve come?” asked Kingsley in return. “I wouldn’t want to waste your time with unnecessary explanations.”

Uncle Vernon harrumphed. “He hasn’t said anything. That Dumby-fellow who came last year, he talked a lot, but I can’t say as I remember all his claptrap.”

Harry rolled his eyes in embarrassment and noticed how a corner of Aunt Petunia’s eye twitched disapprovingly at the thought of Dumbledore’s visit which he, himself, treated as a treasured memory that had the power to warm him in the witching hours of morning when sleep would not come and the whole world was cold and dark.

“Then I’ll begin at the beginning,” said Kingsley gravely, and went on to explain at a fair length and thoroughness the problem of magical protection disappearing on reaching maturity, ending with: “I’m sure that, as a man of reason, you’ve reached the same conclusion as we have: that this house will have to be vacated.”

“Vacated…” Uncle Vernon flinched, but then his voice rose even as his countenance empurpled and he looked to be on the edge of bursting to bits.. “VACATED?! This is OUR home! You can’t run us out like pigs in the night by waving those… things!” Even in the throes of emotion he could not bring himself to say the word _wands_. He pointed at Harry with a pudgy finger. “ _He_ can go anywhere he pleases, and good riddance, but you don’t think we’re leaving the home we’ve spent two decades building, do you! Isn’t that right, Petunia?” Pompously he crossed his arms and turned to Aunt Petunia for emphasis. Everyone else turned to look at her, too. The stuffed giraffe look took over for a second or so, the frills of her dress quivering slightly as she sat ramrod straight on the edge of the hard-backed chair she had chosen rather than share the sofa with Mr Weasley.

She cleared her throat.

“We shouldn’t say no before we’ve heard the alternatives,” she said primly. From a slightly squeaky start her voice strengthened towards the end, and he turned to Kingsley before the astounded and fuming Vernon got a word in. “Where would we go?”

“Wherever you like.” Kingsley gave an encouraging smile and spread his hands to indicate the whole world. “We’ll make all the arrangements and provide you with a new house in whatever location you choose…”

“Eh?” Uncle Vernon’s piggy eyes narrowed. “New house?”

Kingsley nodded. “And the costs of removal.”

“What’s the catch?” Uncle Vernon growled suspiciously. “Who’s this _we,_ and why would they just give us a new house, and how do we know you’d even have those kinds of funds? You’re just a bunch of…” He trailed off with a vague gesture, appearing to notice for the first time that, while Mr Weasley’s Muggle clothes were if not faded and mended at least bought on the cheap, Kingsley wore an immaculately fitted striped business suit that even Harry could tell had cost ridiculous amounts of money.

“The Order of the Phoenix,” said Kingsley, still completely impervious to Uncle Vernon’s offensive tone, “is not without resources. Funds are not a problem in any way.”

“I… I…” Uncle Vernon, clearly nonplussed by the thought of some wizards having money, waffled and teetered back from the edge of rage. Gradually his expression grew calculating, and Harry was more glad than ever that he had never disclosed just how much money his vault at Gringott’s held.

“As to why we owe you a house, it’s simply because we cannot protect you in this one,” Kingsley went on. “You are innocent bystanders caught up in this war through no fault of your own. We have no wish for you to fall victim to Death Eaters or dementors, but this house will draw them in by the dozen once they are able to discover its location.”

“And why is that?”

“Because of Harry.” Kingsley’s patience was nothing short of angelic, Harry thought. “When Dumbledore brought Harry to you sixteen years ago, I’m sure he had no idea he would inadvertently be exposing you to danger so many years into the future, but that has happened nevertheless. Surely you can’t think the Order would stand by and watch you be killed, or worse, by our enemies?” Kingsley’s calm, penetrating gaze sought out Aunt Petunia. “I’m sure Mrs Dursley remembers those times.”

She started and nodded.

“Mr Dursley?” Kingsley said. “What do you think?”

Uncle Vernon seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

Suddenly Aunt Petunia, strangely flushed, got up without a word and strode into the front hall, closing the door behind her. They all stared after her, Uncle Vernon with his mouth hanging open. Mr Weasley made a movement as if to follow her but at Kingsley’s soothing gesture he leaned back again, looking worried. From the hallway came a sharp _thunk_ , exactly as though a high-heeled shoe had connected violently with the wooden panels covering the cupboard under the stairs. Mr Weasley’s worried frown deepened.

 “Well, erm, hmf,” Uncle Vernon puffed, glancing at the hall door with a puzzled expression. Swiftly he rallied. “I—I—I don’t know about this. Our whole lives are here. _I_ have a _job_...” he glared at both their guests as though suspecting them of not having one, “... and it’s a crucial, valued job, I might add! I can’t leave Grunnings in the lurch by gallivanting off.” He was still shaking his head vigorously when the door opened and Aunt Petunia looked in.

“Vernon,” she said, more decisively than Harry had ever heard her address her husband. “Could you come into the hall for a minute, we must talk.”

Harry half expected his uncle to brush her off, but he deflated somewhat instead and let his crossed arms fall to his sides.

“All right,” he sighed with a constipated expression and headed out of the room. “Coming, dear.”

“How are we doing?” Kingsley whispered to Harry when the Dursleys began to converse in the hall in low voices.

“A lot better than I expected,” he chortled incredulously. “What did you do, Imperius Aunt Petunia? I thought we’d have to pry her off the doorframe one fingernail at a time...”

“Harry,” said Mr Weasley reproachfully, but Kingsley just chuckled.

“Clearly you’ve underestimated her common sense,” the dark-skinned wizard said gravely.

After a few more minutes of listening to the ebb and flow of mutters from the hall, the door opened and Uncle Vernon strode in, followed by Aunt Petunia whose expression was utterly closed.

“All right, I’ve decided,” Uncle Vernon announced, standing to face the two wizards again with folded arms. “We’re going. On one condition—I want to see all of this on paper, do you hear? I won’t be cheated by a pack of motley charlatans! So I want it all in black and white, with your name under it.”

Harry’s temper heated at this pointed rudeness towards the people who were the Dursleys’ last and only line of defence against being tortured to death in horrifying ways. To think that Uncle Vernon was demanding sureties, when he should have been on his knees with gratitude! He must have made some involuntary movement, because both Aunt Petunia and Mr Weasley simultaneously made a quelling gesture at him.

“Very well. Have you decided where you want to settle?” Kingsley asked with a perfectly amiable expression.

“Glasgow.” Vernon’s face set as though he expected someone to argue with this choice. “Grunnings has a large factory there, and they’re always trying to get people from here to move up North,” he felt compelled to add.

“Excellent!” Kingsley exclaimed. “Very good, Glasgow is definitely far enough away.” He had already produced a roll of parchment from somewhere about his person and started writing at speed. His quill filled the silence with its silken scratching, while Uncle Vernon looked on, disapproving of this outlandish method of writing down deals.

When the contract was finished, inspected and signed, Kingsley and Mr Weasley rose to go. The latter had not uttered a single word throughout the proceedings, but as Kingsley was magically duplicating the contract and handing the original to Uncle Vernon, explaining that any changes made to one copy would immediately be visible in the other, Mr Weasley cleared his throat.

“Mrs Dursley,” he said. “Might I trouble you for the use of your bathroom?”

Aunt Petunia stared at him blankly for a second, as though completely taken unawares by the idea that wizards could need toilets.

“Of course,” she finally said, cordially enough. “Upstairs, first door on the right.”

Mr Weasley nodded thanks and left. Uncle Vernon was holding the rolled-up contract with only two fingers, peering suspiciously at it as if waiting for it to explode, and Kingsley extended him his hand.

“We have a deal?”

Uncle Vernon now peered suspiciously at the proffered hand but finally grasped it for the briefest of shakes. Kingsley acted as though he had received hearty, enthusiastic agreement and smiled widely.

“I can see that you are a man not to be trifled with,” Kingsley said as they moved as one towards the front door, and Uncle Vernon puffed up a little. “Well, pleased to have met you,” he added at the door.

Mr Weasley came back downstairs and there were nods and handshakes all around before the two wizards stepped out onto the flagstone path leading to the street. Just as their feet touched the pavement a very long, very black and very shiny car slid into view from around the corner, and Uncle Vernon made a gratifying choking noise as Kingsley led the way into the back seat.

“See you soon,” Mr Weasley said with a smile and, with a last glance at the Dursleys, joined Kingsley in the car.

Harry watched them go with a mixed sense of foreboding and relief. Somehow these arrangements made his departure more concrete and heightened his desire to be quit of the Dursleys forever, but at the same time he was conscious of an odd nagging nostalgia as his days at number 4, Privet Drive were finally numbered. He wondered if he would feel the same way leaving a cell in Azkaban, or if he had actually, at some forgotten time, enjoyed his life here.

When he got back upstairs, Dudley’s door was open but slammed shut apparently by itself as he approached. Dudley had been told to stay in his room so as not to unduly distress him with adult matters, and Harry could hardly blame his uncle and aunt for wanting to keep him out of a situation that had promised to be difficult enough. He still could not believe how easy it had been; although in truth, appealing to Uncle Vernon’s greed had inevitably been the thing that clinched it. Kingsley was a genius.

When he took up his Quidditch book again he heard Aunt Petunia go into the bathroom and lock the door. She was probably counting the mini-soaps and the towels and trying to figure out how many Mr Weasley had walked off with, Harry thought morosely.

 

* * *

 

Dripping wet with the rain, Arthur stepped into the Three Oarsmen at what his watch insisted was a quarter to noon but which the butterflies in his stomach tried to make _too late_. Blinded after even the muted daylight outside he peered around in the relative gloom of the pub until he was certain that she was not here yet.

“Can I help you?” The barkeep, a blonde girl about Ginny’s age, leaned forward on the bar. “Pint?”

“No… um, just tea. Two cups.”

“I’ll get you a pot, shall I, luv?”

“Yes, a pot would be very nice.” He looked around once more while shaking out his coat. “You wouldn’t have a sort of cabinet room, would you?”

“A private space?” The girl grinned and winked, and Arthur’s face flushed. “Uh-huh… We’ve got no special rooms, but the back booth round the corner there’s free, can’t see it from the door anyways.” She nodded towards the darkest corner of the pub and indeed, the end booth was deep in shade and protected from view by the angle of the wall. He slid onto the green imitation leather of the sofa only to become momentarily distracted by the yellow stuffing escaping from a tear in the plastic. Just as he had suspected—Muggle furniture used much the same materials as regular furniture, except more plastic.

“’ere you go.” The young barkeep set a large pot of tea, two mugs and other tea things in front of him and retreated behind her counter again. He checked his watch—ten to. What if Petunia had never found the note he had left in her make-up bag? Or worse, what if someone else had found it? The idea, implausible only half an hour ago, that in a household of one woman and three men there would be more than one person needing to use powder and rouge, began to loom larger in his mind. Maybe Harry had already been suspicious. Or maybe Dursley had… Arthur took a long, calming breath and told himself sternly to relax. The worst that could reasonably happen would be that Petunia would not come, and while a dreadful enough prospect, it wasn’t the end of the world. At the very least it would mean he still had a small period of grace before telling her what he had to somehow force himself to say.

The door opened and shut with a bang, followed by the patter of water droplets being shaken from an umbrella and a few hesitant steps of high-heeled shoes. Arthur rose and peeked around the corner just as the barkeep’s voice announced: “If you’re looking for that ginger bloke in an orange tie, ‘e’s round there.”

Petunia stepped into view, beautiful in her Muggle overcoat and with her dark hair tossed around by the wind. Arthur’s insides melted with joy and relief.

“You came! Here, let me get your coat.” He assisted her out of the wet garment and found a peg to hang it on while Petunia, smiling now, patted her hair and took a seat. “I was worried you mightn’t have found it.”

“It took me a while, but I was so certain I’d find something that I kept looking. Oh, tea, how lovely,” she added as Arthur poured them steaming mugfuls. “Dreadful weather… Arthur, what’s happened to Bill? Is he… well, clearly he’s not all right, but how bad is it?”

He brought her up to speed on Bill’s run-in with Greyback, with a small detour to explain to the horrified Petunia that yes, werewolves actually existed but that most were quite all right and posed no threat to anyone. “At least the news from the hospital is good—the wounds are starting to close and heal. About time, it’s been two weeks, we were getting desperate there for a while, but now the healers are really hopeful.”

“Thank goodness,” Petunia sighed and delicately sipped her tea. Arthur absently admired the way her long fingers twined around the handle of the mug.

“How are things at home?” he asked.

“Packing and chaos. Vernon changes his mind every two days about whether he thinks we should stay or go. I let him talk and go on packing,” Petunia said. Then her faint smile lit up into a genuine grin. “But you’ll never guess what happened—Harry threw out most of his old schoolbooks and other things! Well, he binned them, and I rescued them. He’d actually been hoarding all his old books under his bed, instead of throwing them out or selling them on!” Petunia gave her curls a disapproving shake. “So now I have all these books about magic, and no idea what to do with them all. And a tiny cauldron!”

“Brilliant!” At Petunia’s beaming countenance, Arthur felt a stab of embarrassment. Why had he never thought of that? He could have at least asked if she wanted him to get her something from Diagon Alley. Besides, there were generations of schoolbooks up in his own attic, she could have had those… the ones that the ghoul had left alone, of course.

Petunia dug into her carry-all, resurfacing with the familiar _Standard Book of Spells Grade II_ (of which, Arthur knew, there were at least two copies in the attic, one of them not completely in pieces). She continued in a lowered voice: “I think I could start learning some of the second-year charms, if only I knew a few basic things the book doesn’t bother explaining. Would you mind terribly…?”

“Of course I don’t mind, but I’m not much good with that sort of stuff.”

“You always say that, and you always are anyway,” Petunia smiled. “So, firstly—when the spell has two parts, how do you time the gesture with the wand? Does it matter?”

They spent a very pleasant three quarters of an hour in uninterrupted discussion of the basics of magic, insofar as Arthur himself understood them, having always gone more by gut feeling and being much more interested in electricity. He loved seeing how she came alive and how her eyes sparkled more with every answer he was able to give. From the opposing sofa she moved beside him so they could both see the text and the notes and quick diagrams that she pencilled in a notebook, and her scent and her warmth and simply her presence had exactly the same dizzying effect as they always did. When their knees met under the table, Arthur realised his resignation and resolve were just about to melt away. He barely registered Petunia’s next question from under the gathering surge of desire.

This would not do. Absolutely not. He had to be back at the office in less than an hour, there would be no time… He took a breath. No time and no opportunity and even if there were he had to use the time to say what needed to be said _now_ , and not later.

Petunia had fallen silent. She leaned back, her face grave and her eyes slowly losing their light.

“Pet…” He shifted his knee away. His whole body seemed to fill up with cold, heavy lead. He almost reached out to take her hand but thought better of it.

“What?” She crossed her legs and looked at him, unreadable.

Arthur closed his eyes briefly.

“This is getting too dangerous.” He forced out the words that tried to stick in his throat and refuse to climb to his lips.

Petunia sighed, a small sigh of defeat that went straight to his heart. She got up and moved back to her side of the table.

“I thought so,” she said, not looking at him. “We already can’t write to each other, you can’t come to the house, and now… I’m leaving for Glasgow.” She choked a little on the words.

He really had no idea what to say to that, how to frame the inescapable conclusion that begged to be drawn.

She cleared her throat. “Let’s be sensible adults about this,” she said. “We both knew this might happen. Now it has.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered inanely.

“It’s not your fault. This time,” she said, and her mouth twitched in a small smile that Arthur was quite unable to return. “War is war. And we agreed to make no promises we couldn’t keep.”

Her words were bracing but she was still staring at the tabletop, not looking at him.

“If only it were up to me…” he started but then grimaced, overwhelmed by all the implications of that simple sentence. Because, in the end, it _was_ up to him and no one else. “What hypocritical claptrap I’m spouting.”

“Sssh.” Petunia shook her head. “Arthur, don’t. It’s not up to either of us. So let’s just accept that this is how it has to be.”

He would have given much to have heard her add “for now” at the end of that statement, but she did not, and neither did he. Because after all, what could possibly change that _now_ into a different kind of future? They had been living in the now for years, knowing and refusing to know that change would have to come.

“I can’t promise that it’ll be over soon, that you’ll be back home in Little Whinging in no time… or that I’ll still be here then, given how things are going.”

She flinched and went a little pale. He could not help it, he reached across the table and took her hands. “But I promise to do my best,” he continued. “Just make sure _you_ stay out of danger, because the last thing we need is more fronts to fight on.”

He kissed her fingertips. She finally met his eyes and Arthur wondered if she could read his misery, because he could decipher none of what she might be feeling from her steady gaze. Then she drew away her hands and began to collect her belongings.

“Will I see you when we leave the house?” she asked, shoving her book and notes and pencils into her roomy bag.

“Best not.” He stared at his tea. “I’ll let Kingsley handle everything from now on. I had to resort to mild violence to get him to take me along the other day, anyway.”

Petunia started to put on her coat, got tangled up in it and stood up. Arthur did so too and helped her into it, racking his brain for something to say, anything to make it all better. He really wanted this not to be happening.

She turned to him, coated and ready. “So is this goodbye, then?” She sounded choked.

“Can I keep hoping that it’s not?” he asked. “That after the war, if I come to see you, you won’t throw me out on my ear?”

She let out a sound that was halfway between a giggle and a… sob? Gasp? “I won’t,” she said. She took a step back but halted when his hand, quite of its own accord, grasped her arm.

“Arthur,” she began, but he cut her off with a kiss. He had to. Just one more kiss, to take with him into the darkness that promised to come. She wrapped her arms around his neck and they held each other for a moment that neither wanted to end, tasting each other’s tears.

Then she broke off and took a step back, and another, and then she turned and walked away, out into the rain, without another word and without looking back.

And all he could do was to let her go.

 

 


	6. The Battle Won

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Battle of Hogwarts, nothing will ever be the same.

In the reflection in the mirrored wall, Petunia caught sight of herself in her new, extravagantly expensive powder-blue evening gown and perfectly matching pumps, hair twirled into complicated curls and frozen in place with hairspray, diamond earrings and necklace and ring catching the light from the chandeliers. The May Day Party held by Grunnings Plc for their senior staff and most important customers was not your traditional spring carnival with madrigals and May Queens and dancing round the maypoles, oh no—there was dancing, but only on the parquet floor of the George and Mary Hotel in central Glasgow, and all those in attendance did their utmost to forget that such things as forests and fields and folk customs existed.

The golden hands of the enormous clock above the double doors of the ballroom pointed to exactly eleven, and the dancing was only just getting started. She shook her head at Mr Trengdon from Sales at his request to take to the floor—she would dance as she was expected to do, but wanted to save her breath for Vernon’s boss and two or three of the biggest customers of Vernon’s department. Provided, of course, the men were in any condition to dance, she thought as she glanced at her husband amid a gaggle of other men, busily getting themselves paralytic with the free champagne and beer and whiskey. She started that way with the intention of finding out.

“Petunia, what a lovely dress!” trilled Mrs Clangbury, the wife of one of Vernon’s subordinates, herself holding her third or fourth champagne flute. Thus thwarted, Petunia squeezed out a smile that anyone should have been able to spot as insincere and sipped from her own glass. The drink had warmed in her hand and for an insane second she toyed with the thought of taking out her wand and re-chilling the liquid.

“Have you tried the duck liver pate?” Mrs Clangbury asked. Her dumpy shape tilted as she leaned forward anxiously. “It’s simply to die for. And the ginger carrots!”

“No, I…” Petunia began but the words turned into a frightened yelp at the sudden sensation of having an invisible live coal dropped down the front of her dress. Gasping with the pain she sought for a table to put down her drink and, failing, shoved it at Mrs Clangbury before hurrying out of the ballroom as fast as her heels would allow. Reddening slightly under the puzzled and disapproving looks from the other guests she pulled out of the recesses of her dress the chain on which dangled Arthur’s silver sickle and yanked it from around her neck.

The ladies’ room was, mercifully, almost deserted and she flung herself into a stall, heart pounding. The spot between her breasts where the coin had rested still stung although the pain slowly dulled into the intense discomfort of rubbing a strong detergent on one’s skin. When she shrugged the dress off her shoulders it revealed a rising blister. The sickle was still searing hot to the touch, but that was hardly the topmost of her worries.

“Oh no,” she muttered, panic rising. “No, no, no, please no…” Arthur was in danger somewhere out there, right now, just at this minute. He might get hurt. He might _be_ hurt already. He might be… no, he was alive, had to be if the sickle was still hot. He had said it would go freezing cold if he… She flinched from the word and sank down onto the cover of the toilet seat.

Ten months. She had not seen him, not heard from him for ten long, dark, suffocating months, not since that kiss in the pub, since she had torn herself away from him and run. Every now and then she had spotted his name or the names of his children in the _Daily Prophet_ —perhaps she should have cancelled her subscription but could not bring herself to do that, because then she would have had no news at all—and each time it filled her with renewed pain and longing. In recent months, though, the paper had been full of muddled poppycock confusing the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore’s followers with Death Eaters and dark wizards.

She poked at the sickle with a cautious finger and got another burn for her trouble. What could it be? The coin had never grown this hot before. It had at most been warm enough to be uncomfortable but never scorching like this, not even when it had flared up the first time just after they left Privet Drive. She could only hope Arthur was not alone, that he had his friends by his side—and Molly, who he claimed so adamantly was better at fighting battles than he. Her jaw tightened. What could she do, herself? Petunia racked her brain for ideas. How could she help? What should she be doing? Arthur, he reminded herself, had specified _Nothing, absolutely nothing_ , and that was about how much use she would be in a fight. She had no idea whether calling for Muggle backup would help or hinder—or even where she could tell them to go. She let out a frustrated snort.

When she stepped back inside the ballroom on slightly wobbly legs, Vernon was still pickling and ingratiating himself with his boss and customers. As she neared the corner they had staked out, Petunia registered only distantly that one of the customers seemed to be leading Mrs Clangbury to the dance floor.

“I don’t feel well, I’m going home,” she said in a low voice, bending close to Vernon, almost choking in the fumes from aftershave and alcohol. “I might be coming down with something.”

“Now?” he frowned and scoffed. “Well, if you must.”

“Yes, now,” she answered frostily. “But do go ahead and enjoy yourself, and try not to wake me when you get home. I’ll take a taxi back.”

Vernon let her go with no further remarks. He was clearly satisfied with not having to escort her, no more than she was at not having to endure his inebriated complaints and to pretend to be listening to him.

At the house, all the lights were on and music was blaring on the stereo. Petunia ground her teeth. Her head had begun to pound painfully and she was really not in the mood for some unsanctioned party of Dudley’s, who would have expected them to stay away until the early hours of morning. She marched straight into the living-room, yanked the power cord of the stereo out of the socket and, about half a dozen of Dudley’s friends staring at her in amazement, silently pointed at the door. One by one they got up and filed out, some with muttered apologies, the two most thuggish ones in worn leather jackets throwing murderous glares in her direction. One blessed soul took his and a few friends’ beer bottles through into the kitchen before slipping out the door. Dudley tried to follow them out but Petunia yanked him back inside by his leather vest.

“You’re not going anywhere. Clean up this mess,” she ordered curtly and headed upstairs, ignoring the pitiful “But Mo-om…!” from her son.

The burn on her chest was now throbbing with pain in time to her racing heartbeat. The sickle was still scalding to the touch, but, she discovered, did not heat anything other than her flesh—at least there was no danger of it setting the house on fire. She stripped off her finery and showered, careful of the burn, and then sat in her nightgown staring at the sickle, wishing it could tell her what was happening. She turned on the television for news, but the only item of even remotely possible interest was an enormous thunderstorm that was reported to be ravaging the Highlands; she had come to find that Muggle media tended to interpret flashes of light and loud noises in the sky as thunderstorms even when they were caused by much less natural phenomena. Like magic.

She was still awake when Vernon crashed through the front door at four thirty but buried herself under the covers and pretended to sleep until his breathing beside her deepened into drunken snores. Then she got up, padded into the kitchen and paced back and forth with a mug of tea in her hand and periodically poked the sickle to make sure it had not gone cold.

And then, at half past five, it did. She stopped dead and grabbed the coin in her trembling hand—yes, the scorching heat was gone, replaced by… by… was it the chill that heralded the worst? Or just the normal temperature of silver? Certainly it was cooler than she had felt it before, but not icy. Surely not icy. She pressed her hands to her mouth to still her gasps of fear, and the metal warmed at her breath.

At seven thirty she climbed up into the enormous but cluttered attic only to discover that the _Daily Prophet_ failed to be delivered at the usual time. She climbed over trunks and boxes to the window she always left open just a crack, wide enough to admit a smallish owl, and stared over the sleepy roofs and gently waving trees in the early morning fog.

At nine fifteen she finally spotted the post owl and soon unfolded a still-warm copy of the _Prophet_ onto her lap. Wide-eyed, she read the headlines.

**VOLDEMORT DEAD**

**Great Battle At Hogwarts—Many Feared Dead**

**All Death Eaters Killed Or Arrested**

**Harry Potter Hero Of The Day**

She let out an involuntary squeak, then, as the message sank in properly, whooped in triumphant laughter. She got up and, still laughing, leapt in the air in a silent victory dance, hugging the paper to her chest and crying at the same time. It was over! The war was over, the dark wizard had been defeated, maybe permanently this time—and, what was most important, Arthur was out of danger. And Harry, apparently, although in all honesty he did not feature largely in her joy.

The paper said no more than that both sides had suffered casualties and that Hogwarts Castle had been ruined in the fighting but promised a special free edition of the _Evening Prophet_ that would have more details. Thus her morning and early afternoon passed in a fog of distraction, albeit a happy one. Dudley slept until noon, took his lunch up into his room and sat in front of his computer the rest of the day. Vernon, suffering the after-effects of his binge on whiskey and champagne, merely groaned and sweated in bed and certainly noticed nothing out of the ordinary in her demeanor.

The _Evening Prophet_ special issue was delivered at three, but the details did not live up to their promise. It gave a sketchy account of the battle with some pictures of the castle, not completely ruined as the morning’s news had implied but quite badly damaged, and of the combatants—she took out a magnifying glass but recognised none of the faces, unless two tiny figures hugging in the background of a picture of the main doors were Arthur’s Ron and that Hermione girl. Everyone interviewed by the reporters sung the praises of Harry and his friends—and, she discovered to her delight, the entire Weasley family, listed alongside a string of other names. “ _Out of respect for the families of the deceased, the Daily Prophet will not release a list of casualties before the next of kin of all victims have been informed_ ,” said the paper, frustratingly.

Sunday’s paper was again full of the battle and of the reactions of the wizarding world, from Gringott’s goblins to Diagon Alley patrons to patients at St Mungo’s. Petunia devoured every word, crouched on a bookcase laid on its side in the attic, brushing off all demands of the rest of the family with “Cleaning! Don’t come up!”

 

The largest headline in Monday morning’s _Prophet_ , when Petunia retrieved it from the attic after Vernon had left for work, read

**LIST OF CASUALTIES FROM BATTLE OF HOGWARTS**

Arthur’s silver sickle was still firmly room temperature as it had remained since dawn on Saturday, so Petunia did not expect any great surprises when she turned to page 23 for the list of names, but her heart still thumped painfully against her ribs again she scanned down the list for the W’s.

No _Weasley, Arthur_. She heaved a great relieved sigh and sank into her customary kitchen chair, but the satisfied smile fell from her face when she saw the names that in fact were there:

_Weasley, Fred  
Weasley, Morgana (Molly)_

She stared at the list, struck dumb at first, unable to quite believe it… and then the lines blurred as her eyes filled with tears. Poor Arthur. Poor dear Arthur, what hell he had been through while she had sung to herself and celebrated! She sat still for a long time, forming barely half a coherent thought.

The doorbell rang, and she started and wiped the tears off her cheeks. Who could it be at this hour? Dudley was ensconced in his room, listening to music; she could hear the pounding of the rhythm through the wall, although she had repeatedly asked him to wear headphones. Vernon was at work and he had his own keys. Still reeling from shock, Petunia blew her nose and went to open the door, only to halt in thunderstruck astonishment at who was standing outside.

Her mouth began to form the first syllable of his name, when she noticed the other person on the doorstep and managed to switch names mid-utterance.

“Ahh—Harry?!?”

Arthur and Harry stood out there, together, in the flesh, broomsticks in hand. Petunia yearned to fling herself into Arthur’s arms but because she couldn’t, she grabbed her nephew in a fierce hug instead.

“You’re all right!” she exclaimed and clutched him tight. Behind his back, though, her eyes were on Arthur. She held out her hand and he gripped quickly, mutely.

“Uh… Aunt Petunia?” Harry hesitantly hugged her back. She gave him a final squeeze and detached herself. Harry nudged his glasses higher on his nose, looking confused but pleased. He had grown in height and in width, and although he would never be as muscular as Dudley, the annoyingly scrawny, sickly-looking boy had matured into a young man more like his father than ever. He wore clothing that was neither from the Muggle world nor from the wizarding one, ordinary jeans and a loose pullover in Gryffindor colours.

“Come in,” she said, opening the door wide and leading the two of them into the living-room. “I’m so glad to see you.” Although not as glad as she would have been to see only Arthur.

“Aunt Petunia—where did you get that?” Harry blurted in astonishment. Only then did Petunia notice the _Daily Prophet_ she still clutched in her hand and felt her face redden.

“I… I placed an order some time ago,” she stammered. She stuck the paper in the bookshelf and decided not to explain further.

“So you already know,” Harry said after a small silence. “That it’s over.”

“Yes, but is it?” Petunia asked. Now that she finally had someone to ask, she found that she had dozens of questions. “Last time, afterwards, there were Death Eaters who refused to yield, there were… well, they talked of giants rebelling, and that sort of thing.”

Harry’s eyes widened and he was apparently struck speechless by the fact that she knew the word Death Eater. Silly boy, he already knew she read the _Daily Prophet_ , and he certainly should know this wasn’t the first time she went through this.

“The giants were wiped out this time, we think,” Arthur said. His voice was husky and he sounded tired, deathly tired and old. “A few minor dark wizards are giving us trouble, yes, but nothing we can’t handle. So we came to tell you that you can go back home, if you want to.”

Home. Petunia sat down heavily on the edge of the overstuffed sofa. That was right, she would get to go home. Somehow the thought had not even occurred to her.

The house on Privet Drive had been sold off through an agency and this nondescript house in a suburb near Glasgow with an unpronounceable name was supposed to be her home now. They had lived here for almost a year, but some boxes still sat taped shut in the neglected attic and Petunia had kept intending to refurbish the kitchen and the living-room. The entire house had a temporary, ad hoc feeling, and Petunia had never felt at home here. Vernon loved being in charge of a bigger, more important department than his old one, and she had thought it was merely a matter of time before she settled in, too… but throughout this horrid year that had not seemed to be happening.

“Oh…” she stammered and wrung her hands, not daring to hope. “I, uh, need to talk to Vernon, of course.”

“Of course,” Arthur said colourlessly.

Petunia’s heart went out to him. “I, I, I’ll put the kettle on,” she stammered and dashed into the kitchen before her grief got the better of her. She busied herself with the tea, taking her time with the pot and the leaves, while Arthur and Harry talked in low voices in the living-room. Then there was a series of light creaks as someone climbed the stairs, and Arthur appeared in the kitchen doorway alone.

“I sent Harry upstairs to greet his cousin,” Arthur said, but was barely finished before Petunia rushed to him and folded him in an embrace.

“Arthur, I read the paper, I’m so very very sorry,” she whispered. “It’s terrible!”

“Pet, don’t…” Arthur sobbed and hugged her back hard. “Please. I need to keep myself together for a little longer. My family…” His voice gave out. They held each other in silence until the stairs creaked again with a descending tread. They parted reluctantly, both hurriedly wiping their eyes. They were just in time—Harry pushed open the door a mere second after.

“Are we going, Mr Weasley?” he asked. Arthur and Petunia exchanged surprised looks.

“Your aunt’s just got the tea ready,” Arthur said. “And I think she mentioned biscuits…?”

“Get the cups from that corner cupboard, Harry,” Petunia said and was about to tell him to go fetch Dudley, but her son exhibited his finely-tuned ability to sense available food and appeared in the hallway at his cousin’s elbow. Petunia thought again about Arthur’s lost son and had to bury her face in a lower cupboard, pretending to dig for chocolate biscuits.

“Where are you staying, Harry?” she asked her nephew over tea, not from any real interest but simply to fill a silence that was less awkward than sorrowful.

“We’re just off to the Burrow, I’m to stay with the Weasleys,” Harry replied with a nod towards Arthur. “But I’ve been thinking of getting my own place soon.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, you know that,” Arthur said.

“Yeah, but it’s sort of time.”

“Got a girlfriend?” asked Dudley and bit into a biscuit. He was becoming less nervous by the minute; food always helped, bless the boy.

“Yes, actually,” Harry said, and the small but delighted grin that lit his face was pure Lily. Petunia had never seen it before and her heart jumped. “Her name’s Ginny. Ginny Weasley.”

Petunia choked on her tea in a not very ladylike manner.

“And you’re staying at her house? Wicked!” chortled Dudley. “Why would you want to move out?” Petunia shot him a furious glance. Harry blushed and avoided looking at Arthur, or her.

“She does have several older brothers with her best interests at heart,” Arthur said with quiet humour and sipped his tea. The look that passed between Arthur and Harry was full of warmth and the camaraderie of all they had faced together. Petunia bit her lip, suddenly feeling jealous and isolated.

Harry, of course, misunderstood her reaction. His face pinched shut.

“I really don’t care if you don’t approve of my girlfriend, Aunt Petunia,” he said, defiant and angry. “We won’t be darkening your doorstep, I promise.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped open. So did Dudley’s. Petunia grimaced. She knew all the things she should say—please do visit, I’d love to meet her, I’m sure she’s very nice—but Vernon would want nothing to do with any of it he would scream his face purple if anyone so much as suggested that any of the Weasleys visit, or Harry either. She stayed silent.

“Harry.” Arthur set down his teacup and looked at the boy reprovingly. “That was unfair.”

“Unfair?” Now it was Harry’s turn to be surprised. “Unfair? _Me?_ She’s the one who…”

“Harry, that’s enough!” said Arthur firmly but calmly. “Show respect to your aunt in her own home.”

Harry fumed but, fortunately, fell silent. Even Dudley seemed abashed.

“I think we should be going,” Arthur continued, drained the last of his tea and rose. “P-Mrs Dursley…”

“Yes?” Petunia squeaked and stood up, too, and swallowed through a suddenly dry throat.

“Don’t hesitate to contact us if you need help with anything.”

“Thank you.” She wanted to say so much more, but Arthur seemed to understand without words and nodded.

“My regards to Uncle Vernon,” said Harry with a drop of acid in his voice. “Mr Weasley, I’ll see you at the Burrow.” He rose, collected his broomstick, and with no more ado and a loud BANG he Disapparated. Dudley let out a small whimper and fled into the living-room, afraid again.

“Write to me,” Petunia whispered. Arthur nodded and extended a hand, which Petunia grasped briefly in both of hers. What she wanted to do was kiss it, but this was nothing like the time or place for it.

Arthur’s Disapparition made only a small popping sound compared to Harry’s, leaving Petunia in the deserted kitchen to clear the table.

One cup—her own—slipped through her trembling fingers and smashed itself against the tiled floor. Petunia stared at it blankly while somewhere inside her rang a silence like the hush after shutting off a vacuum cleaner.

 _It’s over_ , she thought, without knowing what, exactly, she meant—the war, perhaps. The world? _I’m going home. She snatched a broom and a dustpan from the corner and swept up the porcelain shards. Then, with a firm step, she walked straight out the door, barely pausing to put on a coat, and drove straight to the nearest estate agents’._

 

“I have wonderful news,” Petunia announced that night as soon as Vernon returned from work and they were all seated at the dinner table. He gave a halfway interested grunt and forked up steak and chips drenched in gravy, just the way he liked it.

Petunia continued: “Harry came by, and…”

“Harry? You mean Harold Storsson from Marketing?”

“No—no, Harry, our Ha--”

Vernon growled. “Potter!” Petunia flinched. “I thought we were done with that brat!” Vernon went on. “What did he want?”

“He came to say that it’s safe for us to go home now.”

“What do you mean?” Vernon barked. “We _are_ home, aren’t we?”

“Home to Little Whinging. We’re out of danger,” Petunia said and continued hurriedly, before Vernon could interrupt her again: “Anyway, I went to the estate agents today, they made some calls, and apparently that white house on Magnolia Street is for sale. Remember the one with the arched portico and the lilac bushes? Just at the Privet Drive crossing?”

“Why would we go back to Little Whinging?” Vernon demanded. He shook his head. “You’re not making any sense. We’re finally moving up in the world. This house is a lot better than what we had there, better than that white monstrosity, too. Smith and Clangbury live right around the corner. We couldn’t have them over for dinner if we lived in Little Whinging, could we?”

The pit of Petunia’s stomach descended into her feet. Vernon saw nothing wrong with having a bigger house and giving dinner parties to his colleagues, superiors really, every month or two. Organising them, and cooking and cleaning before and after, had in fact been Petunia’s main occupation in all their time here. Of course he wanted to stay.

“Dudley has no friends here,” Petunia said tentatively. “Do you, pumpkin?”

“Uhh… I’ve go’ fwens,” Dudley said through a mouthful of steak and peas.

The dear boy, he did not understand what she was trying to accomplish here. Petunia swallowed a frustrated sigh and stared at her plate, pushing a few peas around while her stomach churned at the thought of eating.

“I don’t like living in Glasgow,” she said quietly. Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. “It’s cold up here, and people talk strangely. I’ve lived in the South all my life…”

“Time for a change then, wasn't it, dear?” Vernon said, not really listening to a thing she said. “‘Ere, Dudley! Leave some chips for the rest of us!” Vernon’s satisfied chuckle at Dudley’s attempted capture and emptying of the bowl of chips crept up Petunia’s spine like a stray rat. Vernon went on to talk about his day at the office and to offer what he probably thought were golden tips about job hunting for Dudley, and there was no bringing back the topic of moving. Petunia tightened her jaw and refused to weep, even when Vernon had the bright idea of giving an ad-hoc dinner party the following weekend for three or four other couples, his work mates of course.

 

The dinner party preparations kept Petunia busy, and it was a full day before she had the first moment to herself. The evening saw her climb up into the attic, the sad, cluttered space that it was after the neat and cosy nest at Privet Drive. At least it provided her with a place to practice magic and to be alone.

Glasgow, which had previously been only boring and strange, had suddenly become a prison and she was itching to be gone from the North, back to Little Whinging, or London—or even Cokeworth. She snorted at the thought of returning to that wilderness of sooty pipes and blackened houses, if it was even there anymore. Her eyes came to rest on the locked wardrobe that stored her books on magic, her cauldron and her wand, and she thought about whether, now that the war was over, Arthur could, or wanted to, continue to teach her or... or if he might be a part of her life otherwise. Instantly she was ashamed of her own thoughts. What kind of person would even think that of a man who had just lost the wife he loved? Best stay with other topics.

How could she make Vernon want to move back South? Material comforts would not help, since life up here was so much cheaper that the price they could get for this house would buy them a place not much bigger than 4, Privet Drive. Perhaps the London office of Grunnings could be persuaded to give Vernon a better job—but then, he had just started here, relatively speaking, and Petunia was in any case in no position to influence his superiors. Dudley seemed not to be cooperating, not realising he would be much better off in London. Vernon had no hobbies that could not be indulged in Glasgow as well as in London. In short, nothing was likely to motivate him to leave this ghastly city.

The tea she had carried up had gone cold, and with a wan smile she took out her wand. She set the mug on a side table, checked a book for the spell and wandwork, took aim, and carefully said the words of the warming spell.

The mug exploded, spraying boiling hot liquid around the attic and across her shins. She gave a muffled scream and stumbled back against the wardrobe.

“What the devil was that?” Vernon bellowed, his heavy tread making the stairs squeak as he climbed up.

“Nothing, nothing, I’m sorry!” She grabbed an old pair of socks from a box and wiped at her stinging legs. “Just dropped my tea, that’s all!”

The door below the attic stairs opened. For a second Petunia froze in sheer terror. Vernon would surely not squeeze himself into the narrow stairway? But from the huffing and puffing sounds and the complaint of the boards of the stairs, he was doing just that. Petunia dove after the remains of the cup, collecting shards in bleeding hands. Then she realised she was still holding her wand, and shoved it into the cupboard along with the spellbook just in time before Vernon opened the attic door.

He took a minute or two to catch his breath while Petunia stood stock still, wondering if she should go downstairs herself in the hopes that he would follow and concluding that she dared not leave Vernon up here alone. When Vernon’s breath had steadied and the purple shade of his face had lightened just a little, he straightened and peered around the attic. His expression darkened as he took in the piles of boxes, haphazardly stowed junk, the seat by the window where Petunia came to read the _Daily Prophet_ , and the trunk.

“It’s a mess up here. I thought you’d been cleaning up,” Vernon said and sat down on the corner of a storage box. It gave way under him and he hurriedly stood up again. “Not a bad space, though. I’ve been thinking, we need a home movie theatre, to have entertainment at our little soirées. The Smiths have one, and remember how much fun their last party was? This is just the place! It’s perfect.” He gestured with pudgy fingers, painting visions in the air. “Put the canvas _there_ , and the projector can hang from the ceiling beam _there_. A bar in the corner, and six or seven comfy chairs…”

“I… I… I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Petunia stammered, horrified. “I… it… the… the stairs are too steep. If there’s a bar up here, people won’t be steady enough to climb down…”

“We’ll have the stairs enlarged!” Vernon exclaimed. “We can widen them, and extend them a bit into the upstairs hallway. Yes, that’s it. I’ll call the builders in tomorrow, they can start drawing up plans. You’ll have a new room to fix up in no time. Paint the walls, maybe? A really deep carpet, a red carpet, don’t you think?”

For the rest of the evening, Vernon went on to describe the elaborate plans he had conceived for his movie theatre and performed satisfied calculations of how well his new, higher salary could support the project. That night, she lay sleepless beside him, staring into the darkness. She would lose her space in the attic, the space that had never been more needed than now when every single task in her formerly comfortable life felt like a burden. She thought about her wand and her books and wondered how best to keep them from discovery. Perhaps put them in one of the storage boxes? But where would the boxes go? And where would _she_ go to practice? Maybe she should just take the risk of carrying the wand on her person…

_I can’t live this life._

The thought rolled into sight like a dustball, caught in a draught, from behind some closing door. Her heart squeezed into a tight fist. Live here, up North, in this house where no place was hers? Not practice magic? The idea was unbearable. Then how could she live? With Vernon, and without magic, in the South? She rolled the thought around her head, tasting it. No, she decided. Not without magic anymore, yet how to fit Vernon into that life? Vernon, who abhorred the thought of magic, feared and hated its practitioners... and would fear and hate her if he ever found out. He already loathed all her relatives.

She sat up with a gasp and regarded his sleeping, snoring form. Her husband, in fact, already feared and hated her, hated what and who she was, even without knowing it. Even taking into account her curse, whose effects had now faded, Vernon was hardly innocent of making her hate and very much fear that part of herself, too, for years, and more than anything she found she was terrified that it would happen again. She wanted to be able to see herself as a good person, an interesting person, to be valued for all the things that she was. Like Arthur always had.

 _No, don’t think about Arthur_ , she told herself sternly. _This is between Vernon and myself._ Yet the fact remained that Arthur was the one who had awakened that part of her, whose eyes when he looked at her had held no careful discrimination and no reserve, only eager delight—and made her feel worthy of it. Vernon, on the other hand, belonged to those who had shut away that part of her and nailed down the door.

_I can’t live where I’m hated and feared._

She got up as silently as she could and ran into the bathroom. Her trembling hands found the light switch. The tiled floor was cold against her bare toes. She locked the door and leaned against it, panting. Was she really thinking this? Was it really happening?

_When did I become this person?_

 

Three days later, on Friday, Petunia knocked on Dudley’s door.

“Dudley? Duddy, dear?”

There was a hasty scramble from inside that went on for a while. Then a flustered Dudley opened the door.

“What?”

“I need to talk to you.”

They sat down, Dudley on his bed, Petunia in his desk chair. She measured her son with her gaze. Large and healthy, finding his own niche in the world, just about to turn eighteen and become officially an adult. Where had all the years gone? It seemed only last week that she had changed his nappy, put plasters on his booboos, defended him against all comers in the playground and sung him to sleep.

“Dudley, darling,” she began. “You know your father doesn’t want to go back South.”

“Yeah?”

Petunia paused, collecting courage. “But I do.”

Dudley’s eyes went wide.

“And I am.”

Dudley’s eyes widened more.

“I’m leaving today. I think your father may not like it much, which is why I’m not telling him in advance. I’m… afraid of what might happen.”

 _Vernon_ did not scare her. His words could be hurtful, but she knew she could survive them, and he had never, ever lifted a finger against her. What she feared was her own reaction. She still had no idea if she could fully control the magic she had been learning and would not take any chances on having Vernon splattered all over the blue floral wallpaper of the living-room.

“Please give this to him when I’ve left.” She handed Dudley the letter she had written, Vernon’s name in her neat print on the envelope.

“But mum—you’re—you’re getting a _divorce_?” Dudley’s lower lip quivered.

“So it seems.” She moved beside him and put an arm around his wide shoulders. “Diddums, I’m so sorry. You know you’re welcome to live with me when I find a place of my own. In the meanwhile, stay with your father, do as he tells you, and I’ll ring you every day.”

“Where are you going? Are you going to live with Harry?”

Petunia snorted in disbelief. “What? Hardly. I’m going to London first, and then… I don’t know. But I’ll ring you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay,” muttered Dudley. When she was halfway out the door he added: “I’m gonna miss you, mum.”

“I’m going to miss you too, Wuddy,” she said through tears. “But we’ll see each other soon, don’t worry. We’ll spend the next holidays together, you’ll see.” She closed the door hastily to hide her face.

Vernon was off at work and would not be back before six, expecting the house to be all in readiness for Saturday night’s party. In fact, the house was in readiness, all the food was stored in the fridge, the nice china taken out and the silver polished—only Petunia would not be there.

She called a taxi and went outside to wait for it. Her mind was empty of all thought, and no nostalgia ambushed her when she shut the door behind her for the last time.

When taxi pulled up to the kerb she picked up her two suitcases full of clothes, a few special, cherished issues of the _Daily Prophet_ , her jewellery, some photographs, her magic books and cauldron, and her wand. Not much luggage, she thought, from a whole lifetime. At least it was easier leaving this house than it would have been to leave the one on Privet Drive. The thought startled her, the realisation that even if they had never moved, she still would have left.

She took a deep breath of fresh spring air and stepped into the taxi.

 


End file.
